


Bits and Bobs

by Downdilly



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Additional pairings may appear without warning, Character death of bad guys may happen, Other, Several Original Characters - Freeform, Some Fem!Bilbo, all the usual suspects - Freeform, playing fast and loose with canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 22:30:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8345230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Downdilly/pseuds/Downdilly
Summary: This...this stuff here is why I have been unable to finish the next part of Winter's Son. Hopefully getting this out here will help. A collection of ideas, each chapter unrelated to the last, all currently unfinished, that may or may not develop into other stories. Comments welcome.





	1. The Scorpion Stings

**Author's Note:**

> Ten years or so after the Battle of Five Armies. Everyone lived. Maybe not happily....

When the slave two in front of her went down in the coffle, Gemma was one of the unfortunates dragged down as well. Had she not been weakened by heat, starvation, beatings and dehydration, she’d likely have been able to keep her feet under her, maybe even keep the slave in front of her from falling. Days of abuse on top of festering wounds left her too weak to do more than struggle to her feet before the slavers could drag her through the sand.

Yanking on the chains in front of her, Gemma is able to steady the Man she follows when he staggers up and together they manage to drag the original cause up between them. Fortunately, the chains didn’t tangle and the coffle moved slowly enough that the slaves at the end weren’t dragged more than a few feet before they recovered.

No thanks were exchanged. It was a fact of life that you helped each other in the coffle or you died from being dragged and trampled.

As best as she could tell, Gemma had been a slave for a little over a month. She reckoned the days by how healed the wound in her thigh was; it had been deep, but nothing vital had been hit, and while it ached when she walked it hadn’t lamed her. Her beads and jewels had been stripped from her hair, and she thanked Mahal every day that dwarf women grew beards and were built as stone sturdy as their menfolk. The lack of curves and obvious female features had saved her from the “special treatment” the females of Men had been dealt.

At the same time, Gemma, daughter of Flurghama, cursed the broken axle that had separated her assigned wagon from the rest of the caravan. Gemma had been one of the guards that protected one of the last caravans from the Iron Hills to Erebor. It had taken almost ten years, but in that time Erebor and Dale had both been rebuilt and trade revived; finally it was safe for Durin’s Folk to return to their ancestral hold. The legendary Thorin II, called Oakenshield, ruled in the mountain and she had so longed to see the dwarf that was the ruler of her line, if only for the seconds of the formal greeting.

An event that was unlikely to happen now, and growing more remote with each day that passed.

The slavers had come upon them in the night. Gemma had been asleep before her own turn at watch when they were overrun. She’d been able to take a swing or two and her knife had tasted blood and flesh before she’d been thrown to the ground and trussed like a festival bird. She hadn’t understood a word her black-clad captors said, but when she finally got a look at the tightly curled black hair and dark skin, she understood she’d been taken by the Haradrim.

And what they were doing this far north had haunted her sleep ever since. It was well known that the Haradrim were servants of Sauron, forming the bulk of his more skilled armies. Orcs and goblins might serve as shock troops, size and strength carrying them past many obstacles, but when skill was needed the Dark One called on his Haradrim troops.

It was a short lifetime later that the mounted patrols began sweeping in and out in the changing of the guard and the call of “jaeal almukhayam” rang across the columns. Those in her coffle, roughly twenty prisoners doomed to servitude, dropped where they stood. The sand was deep and soft, yielding under her as she dug in. There was no cover here in the desert but what was made or brought by those who crossed it. She knew by now that the day’s heat would quickly vanish into the empty sky and the only respite would be body heat preserved by thick sand walls. As long as no wind blew to bury her, she would be as warm as possible.

A pair of women walked down the line handing out bowls of thin stew and hunks of flat bread, guarded by one of the slavers, idly swinging his lash. Laughter and shrieks came from another small camp some yards away, and in the firelight Gemma could see the guards grabbing at the women reserved for their pleasure. One must have protested, since Gemma could see a small body being thrown down and then a guard lashing her. Soon enough the body stopped crying, and a pair of guards heaved it beyond the ring of light into the dark.

The women worked back along the line, pouring in a ration of water. It mixed with the dregs in Gemma’s bowl, but she’d grown used to the gritty, peppery stuff and drank it down. In the desert, water was life and worth more than a slave. Slowly, the camps settled into sleep, and the last thing Gemma saw before closing her eyes were the brilliant stars, every bit as merciless in their cold light as the heated glares of her captors.

She was not entirely sure what woke her in the early hours, but eventually she would put it down to an abnormal stillness. Dawn in the desert came quickly, and with it movement in the camps but today only the wind stirred. Only the tiniest sliver of light had peeked over the horizon, but by now her captors should have been up and kicking the slaves awake; the night guards should have ridden in to be replaced by the daytime outriders.

In sudden panic Gemma struggled to her feet, shackles clanking. It took a few minutes before she was able to claw her way out of her den in the sand, but when she reached the top she saw her coffle mates doing the same. She gasped.

All around her were black clad bundles, the remains of her captors. She took a step forward, stumbled and stopped. Looking over her shoulder she motioned to those that were chained to her by the neck to follow. Cautiously they approached one of the bodies, and it was indeed dead. The Haradrim’s face was gruesome to behold, swollen and mottled, blackened tongue sticking out. One hand grasped his own throat, as if he had choked himself to death.

The slave next to her suddenly darted forward and fell on the body, searching until he pulled a long dagger from a scabbard and began plunging it into the body over and over, howling and weeping. Gemma was stunned that the emaciated, filthy creature behind her had so much strength. Her surprise turned wary when he collapsed on the body, laughing hysterically.

She cast her eyes around, and saw similar scenes enacted around her as slaves took their pitiful revenge on those that tormented them. Gemma tugged on the chains until she reached the slaver in charge of her coffle, dragging unresisting beings behind her. Quickly rifling through his robes she found her prize; the keys to her chains.

With shaking hands she unlocked the chains that had kept her prisoner since she entered this nightmare, and watched them fall to the ground in a haze. Tear tracks left wet, muddy streaks on her face while she struggled up the hill to where the leaders camped.

In the center she found more of the same, and a battle standard she had never seen before; a black scorpion, tail arched to sting, on a field of green, embroidered on a flag that was planted proudly through the heart of the master slaver.

 

The news of a clamor at the gates didn’t reach the ear of the King of Erebor until several hours after it happened.  The page that brought news of a half dozen dwarrow thought lost to slavers was panting from the run; it wasn’t just six mourned dwarrow that were returned, two of them were dams thought lost forever.

Thorin II, called Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, was at a working lunch with his First Councilor and Chief of the Guard when his door guard stepped in with a page panting in the background.

“Your Majesty,” the guard interrupted them just when Dwalin was about to pin Thorin’s arm to the table.

“Briest,” Thorin took the interruption as the chance to jerk back from the table and disengage, depriving Dwalin of his victory with a grin.

“New from the gate,” Briest motioned for the panting page to step forward.

The page, a young dwarf barely past his 50th year if Thorin was any judge, seemed uncertain whether to be excited or overwhelmed. He bowed deeply and took a breath before he passed on his message, just like Lord Ori trained him.

“Your Majesty, six dwarrow—four dwarrow and two dams—thought lost to bandits have returned. They tell a tale of Haradrim slavers, and an unknown foe that slew them in their sleep. Lord Oin has taken them to the healing wing, and has said you may speak with them there.”

Thorin was able to smile graciously and thank the page for his service dismissing him and the guard from the room before he dropped back into the chair he’d risen from at the first news.

“You don’t seem happy with the report of six dwarrow freed from certain death,” Dwalin observed.

Thorin and Balin exchanged looks and Balin nodded. “I’ll send for Nori; he’ll need to know this as well.”

Dwalin’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

Thorin sighed and looked away from his longtime friend in favor of staring at the fire. Impatient, Dwalin turned to his older brother for an explanation.

“For the past few years, brother, there has been an unexplained rash of…deaths,” Balin hedged.

“Assassins?” Dwalin questioned. “And you didn’t tell me…warn me about this? How am I supposed to place my men most effectively if I don’t know about threats?”

“Because there are none,” Thorin said softly, “at least, none to Erebor.”

“How do you know, Thorin?” Dwalin demanded. “Looks like there’s a small army out there hunting Mahal knows what! And right now it might be our enemies, but who knows when the vein will turn and it’ll be open season on dwarrow!”

“Dwalin, how do scorpions kill their prey?” Thorin asked.

Baffled, Dwalin frowned at his brother and his king. “They poison them, don’t they?”

Thorin nodded, giving him a twisted smile. “Exactly. They sting.”


	2. Scratch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fem!Bilbo gets on with her life. Hobbity magics. Made up words.

In a hole in the ground their lived a hobbit. Now while this in itself is not unusual, since hobbits all prefer to live in holes, this particular hobbit hole was dirty, dusty and musty; something most unusual since hobbits are the soul of cleanliness and orderliness when it came to their homes. Although it could be excused in this case, simply because the hole in question was still under construction.

After the Battle of the Five Armies as the historians and storytellers were beginning to call it, Bramble Baggins, late of the Shire and Erebor, found herself at rather awkward loose ends. She had an elven sword, a dwarven mail shirt and a pocket full of man coinage to her somewhat tarnished name. Tarnished, because despite everything, the King Under the Mountain had declared her as banished from Erebor on pain of death, and Dain as his Regent had chosen to uphold that proclamation.

“I wasna’ here when it happened,” Dain said to the two other kings and the wizard, “so I cannot judge otherwise. Until Thorin or one of the lads recovers, I have ta’ honor his words.”

In response, Thranduil hmmed, Bard growled, and Gandalf glowered. Completely fed up with all of them, Bramble stormed off to find a bath.

A week later, the living and wounded dwarrow had all moved inside Erebor. Thorin, it appeared, was going to live, although he was still deeply unconscious most of the time. His heirs, Fili and Kili, would both pull through as well, although Fili would always limp and Kili would have difficulty drawing a bow in the cold. The rest of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield had made it through with only a few serious wounds and a pair of broken bones.

Outside, death pyres blackened the sky as orcs, wargs and goblins were torched. A massive burial site was erected between Dale and Erebor for the allied dead; plans were made to erect a monument on the site once the two cities were re-established. The Elf-King and his army had begun to decamp, and by the time the last of the pyres were just smoldering wreckage and the last of the allies were covered in dirt and stone, the last of the elven healers and their guards were striking tents and leaving the plain as vacant as Smaug had.

Bard and his small army of Men had returned to the bones of Dale and were beginning to piece together winter quarters for the families displaced by Smaug’s attack on Lake Town. It was to him that Bramble turned with her decision once her plans were made.

Bramble had helped out where she could for the last week, taking care to avoid any contact with the dwarrow bustling around, even though to most of them she was just an odd looking Man-child and only noticeable if she stood too close to something that could be damaged or cause damage. During that week she thought long and hard on what her options were and the likely outcome of them all. She even went so far as to beg parchment and charcoal from one of the scribes taking inventory and made several sketches and lists. For the long hours of sunset, she could be found on small rises, contemplating any of the horizons that did not contain Erebor.

“King Bard,” Bramble said with a curtsey, one night after the evening meal. “I’ve come to ask a boon.”

Bard heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. It had been a long day, the culmination of a long week, and the last thing he wanted to deal with was the angry hobbit lass that had saved their collective bacon at the cost of her own.

“Bramble, if my beloved Greta was still with us she’d tell you exactly what I’m king of. Now sit down and tell me what brings you to me, and stop calling me king.”

Bramble quirked a smile before settling on a low stool nearby. She’d liked the lean Man since they’d first met on the wrong side of the lake. His dry humor and steadfast if low-key honor had endeared him to her. If any of the Men in Lake Town could restore Dale it would be him, and not just because of his birth. She settled three gold bracelets, two thumbnail sized moonstone and a half dozen gold coins on the table.

“I’d like to buy some land.”

And that was how Bramble Baggins became the owner of five acres of somewhat hilly land on the far side of the lake and between the Lake, the River and Mirkwood. She was even gracious enough to let him bargain her down to the two stones and the heaviest bracelet after he started to insist that she be granted it as a reward for her courage. She left the tent with a signed contract and a packet of letters; now to find an elf to deliver them.

__

A Hobbit, like any creature that dwells and digs under the ground, is born with an innate sense of when, where, and how deep to dig a smial. While nowhere near as sophisticated or detailed as a dwarf’s stone sense, it was more than adequate to create living space for the average hobbit household.

Thus, having found an elf to see to the delivery of her letters to Rivendell, Bramble turned her attention to scavenging what she could and purchasing what she couldn’t. Top of her list were a bucket, a shovel and a nanny goat in milk. The first two were easy enough to find in a pile of discarded equipment left by the dwarrow encampment, but she had to bargain dearly for the goat from a Dale family.

If she hid behind a load of barrels when she saw a dwarf that greatly resembled Oin come out of one of the healing tents, that was for her to know and a certain dwarf never to find out.

A day later with a pack full of supplies, Bramble set out for her new home, leading Nana on a rope.

Without Thorin or a pack of orcs nipping at her heels, Bramble nearly enjoyed the long walk. It would take her at least a week and a half on foot, but she had little worry about stray orcs or goblins when she journeyed with groups of elves. It wouldn’t be until she passed the road leading into Mirkwood that she would need to worry, and she planned on hiding in the forest when night fell. She was in no hurry, after all.

Naturally, it was two days after parting from the elves that Bramble ran afoul of that which smelled fouler than herself after a week on the road.

The trio of goblins would have ambushed her and she would have died right there save for the warnings of both Sting and Nana. The goat, as bad tempered a member of her breed as could possibly be found, had bleated twice before lashing out with a pair of sharp hooves and following it up with a savage bite and sweep of her horns at the over-eager goblin in the lead.

Not wasting time, Bramble slid on her ring and ran to the side, using every moment of the other two goblins’ confusion to move behind them. A quick slash-and-run had one down with a severed hamstring, and when the second turned at his companion’s scream she took that one cleanly across the throat. It garbled and grasped but quickly fell, only to bleed out while trying to breathe and stop the flow from the deep slice. Not even thinking Bramble turned on the second and lunged, shoving Sting right through the crippled one’s heart.

Gasping, Bramble spun only to find Nana warily chewing on a tuft of hard grass a short ways away and keeping an evil eye on the one she’d gored. Bramble yanked Sting free of the one and shoved it through the third one just to make sure.

Battle done, she dropped her little sword and ripped off the ring before she staggered away and threw up her last three meals. She huddled, half-sobbing, half-choking, until a gentle yank on her sleeve drew her from her misery. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes on a plain square of filthy cloth she’d scavenged from the tent city to look up and throw her arms around Nana.

“Thank you, dear heart,” she moaned into the coarse hair, laughing when the goat gave an admonishing blaat.

Still sniffling, she began the gruesome task of stripping and searching the dead. There was a rude camp nearby and while she dared not touch any of the meat for fear of the source, there was still some coarse bread and a pair of water skins. When she finished she had a small pile of armor and weapons and another of rough woolen clothing and blankets. A small silk purse with a dozen different coins gave testament that she was not the first traveler they had waylaid. She buried what she couldn’t carry, took what she could and set off to add another hour before she made camp.

It was another three days of blessedly uninterrupted walking at a comfortable hobbity pace before Bramble and Nana reached the crown of the hill she’d selected as their future home. It had been a little over two weeks since she’d last spoken with anyone from the Company, and slightly less than that since she’d made her agreement with Bard. The land she stood on now had once been part of Lake Town and before that Dale, so she was quite confident that Bard, as leader of Dale, had the right to deed it to her.

“This is it, Nana, home from now on.”

Bramble sighed and looked up at the sky, measuring how long she had until the early sunset of fall would darken it past vision. What she planned to do here was something hobbits hadn’t done since the end of their wandering days. Sure, every hobbit knew what to do and how to do it in theory; but raising your wedding garden or bringing a well back to life was one thing, especially with a partner or other smialholders to help. What she was doing here was a throwback to when hobbits had first settled in the Shire, and she had no one to help her.

Food. Shelter. Water. Warmth. The four things she would need for herself and Nana to make it through. A small stream ran across the property, scarce more than a trickle right now but it would do. She could find wood or burn some of the low bushes around her for warmth. She had a small amount of food, tasteless as it was, Nana was still giving milk and there was a cornucopia of wild greens, berries and mushrooms in the area to eat now that she didn’t have to cater to dwarven tastes. Shelter would be the most immediate need, shelter and protection from stray enemies.

So it was that Bramble picked up her shovel, dug her toes into the ground, and gave herself over to *listening*. She listened to the sky and the breeze, the sun and the moon and the stars. She listened to the trees and the grass, to the water both over and underground. She heeded the words of the lake and the words of the hill she stood atop. And somewhere in between the time it takes a hungry hobbit to eat an apple and a year and a day she understood.

Then she went down to the side of the hill that the hill told her would be best, and began to dig.

That first night she didn’t get very far, tired from walking and still having to fetch water and feed for Nana as well as wood for the fire, but she managed a hollow deep enough to cut the wind and the extra dirt was enough to shove around into a fire pit. The earth provided roots to roast, and with milk from Nana she was content enough in the night.

The next weeks were full of hard work for the hobbit lass, sun up to sun down and even hours after.

She dug out her little cave as deep as the hill said it was safe without support, then added several small hollows to hold supplies for the coming winter; not so big as to violate the integrity of the hill, but deep enough that she could stock emergency rations of grass for Nana and food for herself. The grass was beginning to crisp at night, heralding the first snows. Really, she was surprised they’d held off as long as they had.

The ground inside and out was covered each day with the blankets and cloaks she’d scavenged from both the battlefield and the goblins she and Nana had slain. Washed in the river they’d dried suitably, and now they held varieties of fruits, herbs, roots, nuts and mushrooms gathered from wider and wider stretches around her home, drying in the waning sunlight. Bundles of grasses were held by twists and then stacked for storage; they would provide insulation, tinder, bedding and fodder for the two during the winter.

The tiny rivulet had been the biggest surprise to Bramble. It apparently had aspirations. Coaxed by Bramble and the blessings of the Green Lady, the trickle was trained back on itself until it ran around the outside of Bramble’s hill, down into a newly created pond, and then along a much broader track to eventually join the Celduin further south. Much more of a force to be reckoned with, the brook burbled and bubbled happily along its new bed.

Wood was a bit more problematic. She couldn’t go much further without a supply of wood, and while coaxing an appropriate staff or axe haft from a tree was easy enough, she hadn’t inherited the full Baggins ability to persuade a tree to provide more than a plank or two, and the trees along the edge of the Mirkwood were exceptionally stubborn. With her hole dug and water assured, wood was needed for more than just warmth. Her pile of firewood was respectable, even if it was mostly deadfall, but she wanted at least enough for a basic door. So she sighed to herself and kept on tending the trees, learning them the way hobbits did, and being grateful for what they did provide. Bramble was sure they’d eventually come around.

She was returning from one such expedition, dragging a bundle of branches, all straight enough to be lashed together into a rough door with a little chinking, when she had her first visitor. She stopped at the edge of her little “courtyard” when she spotted a Man kneeling over her outside fire, apparently slicing something into a pot hanging there. A faint odor of fish stew and pipeweed drifted on the breeze, and when he turned towards her, she recognized Bard.

Dropping her wood and her pack near her entrance she exchanged greetings with Nana before turning to her guest, one hand still petting through the goat’s thickening fur.

“Hullo, majesty,” she finally settled on.

Bard observed her from where he half knelt. She was thin, still, he saw, although there was quite a bit of muscle on her arms. Her skin was tanned from the outdoors and a little chapped, while her hair had grown and bleached, the yellow gold ringlets mixed with white. The edge of something silvery peeked out around her collar, and he was glad to see she still bore her little blade. Attacks had been few and far between, but still happened. Her green eyes were still sad and haunted.

“Your goat hates me,” he said blandly, glad to see the shadows on her lift for a second.

Bramble laughed, “Nana hates everyone; she tolerates me because I feed her. What brings you out this way?”

Bard shrugged then dropped the rest of the way to the ground. “News. Supplies. Quiet. Take your pick.”

“Running already? Who’s running Dale while you’re gone?” Bramble settled the wood for working later and put Sting near the doorway.

“Sigrid of course, with a little help from Bain; they’ve both good heads on their shoulders and between them they can deal with most anything that comes up. If not, they’ve some good advisors they can turn to. It’s not like I’ll be gone forever.”

“True. So how is the rebuilding coming? Will your people have enough?”

Talk turned to the reconstruction of Dale and the surrounding lands, Bard extracting a promise from Bramble to come see the Desolation and give her expert hobbit opinion on the likelihood of regrowth. She managed to stave that off to the spring, citing her need to continue to establish herself.

“You know, we could have found you a nice little house outside of Dale with a bit of a garden if that’s what you were wanting. It’s the very least we could do for your efforts.” Bard cast his mournful gaze around the little camp, scooping up the last bits of their shared meal.

Bramble grinned and shook her head, taking the bowl and spoon from her friend and washing it in the bucket. “No, Bard, hobbits do not easily live near their big neighbors; even in Bree, a mixed trade town outside the Shire, hobbits there live outside the town even if they work or socialize inside it.”

“But you would have done so in Erebor.”

“I..,” she hesitated, dried her hands on a scrap she recognized as a former goblin cloak before she continued. “I would have tried. Whether I could have succeeded is another question, and both are rather moot at this point.”

“You should know, Bramble, that if we hadn’t been interrupted by an army of orcs and goblins that it’s likely we could have negotiated with Thorin for gold in exchange for the stone.”

Her smile when she looked at her…friend? Was he a friend? He’d certainly acted the part, more so than many she could name. “That was my intention at the time. Of course, I also expected the dwarrow to be a bit more…rational, I guess.”

“You haven’t asked after them,” Bard said.

Bramble shrugged. “Should I have? The Company moved against Thorin when he tried to…to…choke me.” She could feel herself gagging on the words even while she spoke. “Still, he is their king, their rightful ruler, and I would not come between them and force that decision.”

Bard studied her hanging head and twitching lip. “It seemed to me that you were to be their Queen.”

“Maybe.” She sniffled and lifted her head, shaking away the might-have-beens. “Regardless, I am exiled from Erebor and would be so shunned by the Shire it would be the same there if I tried to return. I cannot live among Men you’re all just too tall.” Her laugh was strained and broken. “I will build a new life here, and I’m sure to keep busy. And if I get too bored of Nana’s company I’ll invite Thranduil’s guards for tea and crumpets.”

Bard started, eyes flicking to the dusk-shrouded woods. “You know about that?”

Bramble’s grin this time was truer. “What? That the Elvenking has a guard along the edge of the woods? Hard to miss them; the forest whispers of their presence whenever I enter.”

“They are there to protect you, not cause harm,” Bard pointed out.

She nodded. “Not that I am not grateful for the consideration, but you might warn them that in another year, two at the outside, that they will no longer be able to do so.”

“What do you mean?” Bard asked, brows drawn in puzzlement.

“Our Lady recognized one of the side effects of creating hobbits as She did, so She gave us protection. Wherever a hobbit calls home, the very land around him or her will rise up against those who threaten them. Soon enough, the Elvenking’s guards won’t be able to find me to guard me.”

Bard was silent while he thought about what she said; it was fairly disturbing on several levels. “Does this mean I won’t be able to find you again? Or any of your friends? What about the wizard, would he be able to find you?”

Bramble laughed lightly. “As long as you have my welcome, you will find me. Gandalf is one of the Istari, the Hands of the Valar here on Arda; whether he could find me if I refused him, well, I’m sure if it was important enough to my Lady that he’d find the path. But come,” she rose from the fireside and gestured towards the entrance to her home, “it’s getting cold and dark, let’s move this inside, shall we? Besides, you’ve never actually said what’s brought you here, and with a loaded wagon. I assume the horses are staked out near my pond?”

Bard spun around, wondering how she’d known. He’d been careful to hide the wagon behind one of the other hills, the horses hadn’t wandered into sight, and as far as he could see there were no tracks.

“How did you know?” he demanded, following the hobbit to the curtain-draped entrance.

“The earth told me, and the little river. Watch your head, although the ceiling is higher past the entrance,” Bramble told him, holding up the tattered cloth.

Bard ducked his head to pass through and then banged it against the ceiling when he jerked back with a gasp. He’d thought she was living here rough and unprotected, perhaps in the edge of the forest. Then he thought she had found a cave, something sturdier but the idea of her living in a hole in the side of a hill, where anything wild could corner her and eat her disturbed him no end.

She had risked everything she had on a wild gamble to broker peace between three nations and a mad king. Along the way she had, all unknowing, gained all of theirs respect and friendship. Rumor and Bard’s own thoughts placed her as the likely Queen of Erebor, had Thorin not been lost to the curse of his line. Even now there were rumbles that she was being sought by the recovering dwarf, but for good or ill depended on the speaker.

He had worried about her no end until his children had demanded he go and see for himself. Now, he had no doubt that she would come out right.

What Bard had taken at first for a shallow cave was far from that. The covered entrance hid four wide, shallow steps that sloped downward before opening up into a large, round room that encompassed most of the top of the hill. Around the room were shallow indents in the shape of circles and archways that appeared to mark windows and doorways. This main room was tall enough for even the very tall Man to stand straight, although he could easily brush the ceiling with his hands.

The scant furniture appeared to have been molded from the earth and sand of the ground. In the center of the room was a wide, round fire pit, and when he looked up at the hole in the hill above he thought he caught the outline of a goblin-style shield that partially covered the opening from the outside. There were two chairs near it, and a wooden box between them used as a table. One of the chairs was sized for hobbits, the other for Big People. They were both roughly carved out of the earth and covered with coarse black and brown fabrics. A low bench was similarly carved from another wall, and a few tools and a pair of books sat on it. On the other side of the fire pit from the chairs was a low platform covered in dried grasses, the reason made obvious when, while Bard was still gaping, the goat came in from outside and curled up on it with a huffing sigh.

“You’ve been busy,” Bard murmured, taking the last step down.

Bramble waved him to the chair meant for Big People before taking her own. “I’d offer you tea, but all I have is chamomile and vervain, so if you’re having stomach problems or trouble sleeping I can help, but beyond that I fear I’ve only water at the moment.”

“Water is fine, thank you,” he said, seating himself in the larger chair. It was oddly springy, the seat and back slightly hollowed to embrace a body. Strangely he found it comfortable.

“There are a couple of small kegs of beer on the wagon,” he said when Bramble returned with a pair of tin cups. “I wasn’t sure what you had in the way of supplies so I brought a little of everything. When Sigrid found out I was coming, she insisted on a great number of things I hadn’t thought of.”

He grinned wryly. “Actually, most of those who are calling Dale home now came forward with supplies and offers of help. You’re a bit of a hero to them, you know.”

Bramble snorted. “Yes, well, I found them just as hero worthy; it was their unfortunate leadership that I despised, although I understand the dragon took care of that?” she ended on a questioning note.

“Aye,” Bard’s long face got longer at the memory. “The Master’s house was a loss, along with himself and his bootlicker. Sadly, many good people died along with them. If only I’d been faster with the windlass.”

“Pish! Tosh!” Bramble spit out. “If only you’d been faster! If only the dragon had stayed at the mountain as we’d planned! If only I hadn’t angered him! If only the dwarrow had not come! There are plenty of ‘if only’s to go around. Whether Smaug would have remained content on his horde or he would have destroyed Laketown in a fit of boredom, we’ll never know. What we do know is the dragon will never be a menace to anyone again, and things are finally going right for this region.”

“Is ‘if only I hadn’t taken the Arkenstone’ one of yours, Bramble?”

The hobbit sighed and collapsed back in her seat, slowly sipping her water. “I’ve been over that one a time or two dozen,” she finally admitted. “I could have given it to Thorin and given you my share of the gold, but I don’t think it would have helped. In the end, only the stone would have been enough to force him to the table, and even then it nearly wasn’t.”

“But he broke from it, in the end,” Bard tried to be encouraging.

“So we think, or at least enough to recognize the orcs as the greater enemy.”

“So far he seems,” Bard considered his words, “rational. He is still recovering from his wounds, of course, since they were deep and many, but what business he has tended to he has dealt with fairly.”

“That’s…good to know,” Bramble mused. “Still, it’s late, and I’ve much to do tomorrow, so bring in your blankets and I’ll share my floor with you. It’s warm and dry if not luxurious,” she said with a slight smile, rising to take their cups.

She turned to set them aside and gather her own blankets for the night while Bard went and retrieved his own. Alone, she quickly wiped the lone tear from her cheek before her guest returned.

_Fair dealings, but not enough to send word to one hobbit about their banishment. Shows how true to his words to you he was, Bramble lass, time to put him aside._

And with a stern nod of her head, Bramble set out to do just that.

 

Bard, it turned out, had brought quite a bit with him. So much, in fact, that some of it had to be stored outside her little smial.

Most of it was food and wood, some older children’s clothing Sigrid had sent along as well as several baskets of spun wools, threads and needles. There were, indeed, two small kegs of beer that Bard cautioned her might still be a little green. The wood they piled outside along with a pair of tightly crafted rain barrels. Several pounds of dried meat were a welcome addition to her stores, as were the pickled and preserved fruits and vegetables.

“Everyone contributed something,” Bard said, when she unearthed three fishhooks and a ball of thin waxed thread among two pans and three pots.

The idea that the people of Dale had all thought so well of her brought tears to her eyes and she gave the King of Dale a watery, sniffley hug when he hitched his horses to the wagon. What had taken her over a week walking would take him only four days returning, even leaving as late as he was.

“Winter will set in within the week,” Bramble warned him while she patted a horse’s knee. “I’ve plenty to do and plenty of supplies, so don’t try to come out here until spring.”

“No promises, Bramble,” Bard said with a rare smile, “but someone will be along to check on you no later than the thaw.”

“Oh, you, get on!” she barked back, stepping back from the wagon and waving until it was out of sight.

A tug on her sleeve caught her attention, and when she looked down Nana was glaring at her.

“Right, right, time to get ourselves ready. I’ll have to see about a churn, too, but that will have to wait for spring. Let’s go get some breakfast, love, then we’ll milk and maybe I’ll make some cheese today, I’m sure there’s a brine here that will do.”

The next days were spent in a final rush towards winter. The wood she’d brought from the forest she coaxed and smoothed tightly together into a rough door, only to realize she’d not thought about hinges. With a sigh, she propped it at an angle and stuffed the cracks with mud and cloth. It would be heavy and cumbersome to move, but would do well to keep out the weather.

She even took two days to travel back and pick up the remains of the goblin armor and weapons she’d buried after their ambush. Needless to say, it took some extensive bribery to get back in Nana’s good books once the goat realized she was to be a pack horse. A second round shield was propped up over the top of her smoke hole to help block the weather while still allowing smoke from her fire out. The rest of the armor and weapons she dumped in a pile inside, planning to scavenge the leather out and perhaps sell the metal to a smith for hinges in the spring.

As the earth told her, the season roared in within the week, and Bramble shut her lands off from all to keep any of her friends from trying to travel and find her. Her little smial grew unavoidably rank smelling with a hobbit and a goat in close quarters, even with Nana being unexpectedly fastidious. There were days neither could journey outside to take care of certain matters, and both looked forward to those days where the sun rose on the snowy grounds and they could air the place out and stretch their legs.

 

It was four months to the week when the wind finally snuck in around her door and whirled once around her smial before telling her the change was due within the week. Which is why, six days later she was able to finally open her lands to visitors.

Four days after that she was inundated by a Man with a cart, two elves with another wagon, and six ravens.

“Bramble!” the Man with the cart was the first to arrive and she discovered it was Bard when he scrambled down from the driver’s seat in a rush.

She was still caught by surprise when his long-legged strides failed to stop short and he swept her up into a crushing hug.

“What happened to you? It’s like you disappeared off the face of the earth.” He swung her around again before gently setting her back down. “Then suddenly I remembered where you were!”

“I told you not to return before the thaws, majesty, and I wanted to make sure of it so I closed my lands to travelers.” Bramble tugged her worn tunic straight. “I’d invite you in for tea and cakes, but in reality the place reeks of goat and sweat and other things, and I’d not invite my enemies into it.”

“Then we’ll have to have our tea outside, I suppose; neither the first time nor, I suspect the last,” Bard spoke gravely, with the merest twitch of his lips that was a grin for the taciturn Man.

“Get on with you, then!” Bramble flapped her hands at the Man, herding him towards her little courtyard. It was still hard packed dirt with small drifts of snow around the edges, but the fire pit was clear and she had plenty of wood still. It took the two only a few minutes before they had a good fire going and Bramble hauled out what was left of her tea from winter foraging.

“So what brings you to my doorstep, majesty?” Bramble asked between blowing on her tea to cool it.

Bard sighed and rolled his eyes at her, scrunching his nose when she just grinned back.

 

 


	3. And In Health

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healer!Bilbo. Hobbity magics. Original elven characters on the side. Nobody (important) dies. Khuzdul is bolded.

Bilbo Baggins is in the stillroom when word comes of a commotion at the front gate and possible wounded riders. Mindful of the injured he makes his way to the ward and begins setting up beds as a precaution. Lord Elrond himself had ridden out with a patrol group earlier to investigate sightings of a warg and orc pack near the hidden entrance. Bilbo is certain no harm has befallen his mentor and Lord of the House, but he sends up a prayer to the Valar just in case.

In minutes, clean linens adorn beds and warm water is set to come to a boil, while a selection of herbs, needles, silk, gut, bandages and splints are arrayed next to them. Preparation done, Bilbo takes the time to summon a pair of assistants and they all scrub their hands and arms with altheas steeped water then change into heavy white linen robes while they wait.

Suddenly the doors to the House of Healing are flung open by a pair of elves Bilbo recognizes as the twins, Elledan and Elrohir. Behind them comes Lord Elrond, bearing a…child? No, a dwarf, and an older one by the grey in the hair and beard. Blood smears the lord’s surcoat and hands, trails in splatters along the floor.

Lord Elrond heads for the closest bed before setting what Bilbo prays silently is an unconscious dwarf down. One other is carried in as well, while another dwarf and a lone elf are led, staggering, to beds. Bilbo can see a crowd of them at the door, one arguing quietly with a tall Man—Mithrandir?

<Bilbo, good you’re here, I’ll need your help.> Elrond calls over his shoulder.

<How can I help?> Bilbo answered, already reaching to peel stained and shredded clothing back from deadly wounds.

The dwarf is, indeed, older, perhaps more than 200 years from his hair and the wear on his face, but he is pale and pained and that makes Bilbo shudder to touch him. Already he can feel twinges across his stomach where claws and teeth have ripped open the dwarf.

“If he cannot face such wounds, why is he here?” a gruff voice asks behind him.

It is not the first or worst criticism Bilbo has ever heard about his healing from those who do not understand him, so he accepts the sting and shrugs it off. Ignorance can be corrected later, there is a patient under his hand now who needs his best.

<Can you hold him here while I clean and close these wounds?>

In answer, Bilbo reaches out with the touch he has learned to channel. The pain is wrenching now and he can feel himself starting to bleed a bit in mirror of the patient. He won’t heal the wounds completely, to do so would likely kill both of them, but he can begin the deepest layers healing while Elrond closes the higher ones with gut and silk stitches.

Bilbo holds his hands to the dwarf and patiently waits for Lord Elrond and his assistant to finish. He learns a lot about the dwarf and those around him as a side effect of holding the dwarf’s soul steady. The dwarf is Oin, and he, too, is a healer; a learned physician who deals on a more physical level, but who is sought after for his stubborn determination to never back down from death.

Oin had a husband, Benin, his soulmate and One, who died at Erebor under the dragon. Now he is part of Thorin Oakenshield’s Company to take back Erebor and slay the dragon. The desire for revenge is there, but also justice for all those who cannot undertake this task and face lives without husbands, wives, children and parents because of the fire drake.

Oin also knows he will die from his wounds, and his soul spends time telling Bilbo to let him go. He has lived and loved and had a good life, and while he would like to see the quest to the end his life is not more important than Bilbo’s. Bilbo tells Oin to shut up and live, and after a while the dwarf agrees, if grumbling more than a bit.

An hour goes by before there is a change in the air, and a touch on his face telling Bilbo it is all right to let go now. He says farewell to Oin; that he will see the dwarf when he wakes in a week or so, then puts the dwarf into a healing sleep.

<Bilbo, my friend, it is done, come back to us now. Bilbo.>

The voice is calm and familiar, and Bilbo surfaces as if he had been deeply asleep. Glancing around, the rest of the dwarrow are gone save the three patients. Mithrandir is also gone, likely seeing to whatever business brought him here.

<Are you well enough to aid one more? This one is not as bad, a pair of arrow wounds.>

Bilbo smiles at Elrond before looking down at himself. His white robe is blood soaked, but only he and Lord Elrond realize it is from the inside out.

<A cup of water and a change of clothes if there is time? If not, just the clothes.>

One of the assistants brings him both, and he sheds his stained robes behind Oin’s curtains. The dwarf will never know, so it is safe enough. He washes his hands in altheas water and drains a cup dry, then approaches the second patient.

This one is very young, dark hair and scant beard, face unlined. There was an arrow in one shoulder, another through a thigh, both removed and the wounds bound, but a few minutes work will stave off infection and prevent loss of movement.

<These are not so bad; if you wish to rest and clean up, Taletha and I can take care of this and the other two. Are there any more?> Bilbo asks

Elrond smiles down at the hobbit who has become a masterful healer and good friend in the ten years he has been in Rivendell.

<I will help with this—many hands make light work, as you say, then I will certainly avail myself of your offer, if you don’t mind.>

Bilbo nods and once again places a palely glowing hand on a dwarf. He feels the twinge in his shoulder, a sharp, stabbing, throbbing pain while he rebuilds bone and sinew. He feels Elrond’s touch from the thigh wound, similar but different, and the two quickly blend their abilities to speed healing.

This one is faster and not as deep, so Bilbo learns less about him. His name is Kili, and he loves his brother so, so much. Throwing himself between Fili and the stray arrows had not been a conscious choice but he would have done it even if given all the years of his life to consider. He misses his mother, their mother, a brave dwarrowdam still in Ered Luin. He is proud and excited to be traveling with his uncle, the hero of their people who raised himself and Kili after their father died.

Kili is curious, poking at Bilbo and Elrond both, surprised at the idea of a half-elf and wondering about Bilbo and about hobbits. Already there are plans brewing to coax details from Bilbo about his people, along with an array of tricks and pranks he can’t wait to try out on whoever crosses his path. When Bilbo pulls back a few minutes later, soothing the princeling into a healing sleep, he is smiling as well despite the twinges in shoulder and thigh and the new bloodstains there.

Bilbo changes and washes again, then waves Elrond on his way before turning to the other two beds.

<Halesri, how are you feeling?> he asks the elf in the next bed.

<Foolish,> confesses the elf. <I cannot believe I didn’t duck. I’ll never hear the end of it if Lord Glorfindel finds out.>

Bilbo laughs. <You realize he likely already knows.>

The elf nods and sighs, then leans so Bilbo can better inspect the bandages around his head.

<A good graze that took a good chunk of hair and a nasty slice on that arm,> is Bilbo’s diagnosis.

<Orc mace.>

Bilbo shudders. He’s seen what those wicked spiked maces can do to flesh if they hit square on, and is very glad Halesri didn’t suffer from it. A quick touch, not even enough to touch Halesri’s self, is all that is needed to ease the ache and start the healing.

<Rest. You’ll be back to chasing maidens in two or three days.> Bilbo gives him a final pat and rinses his hands before he moves on to the last patient.

The last is another dwarf, with broken or fractured ribs from the amount of bandaging around his chest. He’s big, both in height and breadth, with massively heavy muscles. His head is shaved and covered with tattoos, his beard is thick and black as coal. Even without boots and armor he would make two, maybe three of Bilbo, and he is squinting at the hobbit, studying him fiercely.

“What are ye?” he asks in Westron.

It’s not often Bilbo hears that tongue any more so it takes a moment for him to answer. “A hobbit, originally from the Shire. Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” He gives a little bow.

“Dwalin. Pleasure. What about those two?” He points to the other two dwarrow, then grunts in pain at the pull on his chest.

“Easy, lean back. There.” Bilbo helps him lean back in the bed, propping him up to ease his breathing a bit. “They’ll be fine. The older will take several weeks to heal, but the other should be up and around in three days or so.”

Dwalin had seen the mess Oin was in and could scarcely fathom that he would live through so much damage. That the prince would be well was icing on the cake, although what fool thought had been going through his head—well, Dwalin would have to beat it out of him.

“Let me see what I can do for you, Master Dwalin,” the hobbit says.

The next sensation is warmth and peace flooding through his body, coming from the tiny hands that are resting gently on his wrapped chest. Suddenly he can breathe easier. Something shifts and with a snap there is a flood of relief as ribs slot neatly back into place. Dwalin sighs before he can stop himself, suddenly exhausted.

“My thanks, Master Baggins,” he says, yawning.

“My pleasure, Master Dwalin,” Bilbo answers, “rest now, I’ll have food brought in an hour or so after you nap.”

The dwarf falls into slumber within minutes, and Bilbo takes the time to make sure his blankets are covering him and the wrapping Taletha had done was not disturbed. He makes one more round of the room, checking that all is as it should be then slips out the door. More than anything he wants a bed and bath of his own, and the thought is enough to keep him on his feet long enough to reach his rooms.

Apparently both things will have to wait a few minutes more, since the rest of the dwarrow he had glimpsed were waiting outside in various states of stoic panic, all demanding answers at the same time. The force of emotion is nearly overwhelming, but Bilbo knows how to handle this and stands just outside the doors, arms folded across his chest and hands tucked into opposite sleeves, head down. If he does not react they will calm down, and if that doesn’t work he knows he can make them calm long enough to sort things out.

Eventually they quiet, and Bilbo finally looks up.

“All three of your companions are responding well. Two will be rejoining you within two or three days.” Bilbo spots Gloin, recognizing him from Oin’s memories. “Master Gloin, your brother is healing but is still a little on the edge. Lord Elrond and I expect a full recovery if nothing else happens, however he will be in a healing sleep for several weeks, and will require several more beyond that to regain his strength. He will, however, recover, as I have said.”

The dwarf, Gloin, drops to one knee and bows his head in front of Bilbo. “Thank the Maker, and you, Master Healer, if there is ever a service my House or Line can do, from smallest to largest, call on us and it will be done.”

Bilbo muffles a sigh, such dramatics! “On your feet, Master Gloin. You and your companions are all bruised and weary in body, mind and spirit. Let these elves guide you to your rooms. Refresh yourselves and rest, and I will come in a few hours to attend what I may.”

Bilbo motions to the two waiting elves. <I recommend the rooms at the far end of the south library wing. They will need to be together for a while, still, and it has all the needed facilities. I will be by in a few hours to check on them.>

The elves bow their heads and then begin ushering the dwarrow from the hallway. Bilbo is relieved when their emotions and pains fade from his mind and body.

“You are not an elf.”

Bilbo turns and finds a dwarf who is much more attractive in reality than memory. He is frowning, but behind that is a bundle of anxiety, frustration and fear; underneath that is a layer of steel.

“I am not, Master Oakenshield. Is there anything I can aid you with?” Bilbo waits patiently, even though he already knows what the dwarf wants is reassurance.

“All three will recover?”

Bilbo nods. “As I have said, barring unforeseen circumstances, they will recover.”

“And what is the likelihood of that?”

Bilbo blinks. Does the dwarf not know? “Very small, since Lord Elrond is the Master of the House. He is somewhat of a seer,” he explains patiently, making sure to keep his tone mild. “Now, I must insist that you join the rest of your party in seeking rest. It is the very best remedy there is.”

The dwarf nods his head and turns to leave, following after the quickly disappearing mob. “I look forward to furthering our acquaintance,” he adds before vanishing into the crowd.

Bilbo sighs and takes himself off to a bath and bed. And food. Definitely food.

 

A light snack, a quick bath and a two hour nap does much to refresh Bilbo from the morning’s labor. He dons light blue breeches and long tunic then covers it with a long white robe. It is as close as he comes to traditional elven healer robes and is a fallback argument for himself and Lord Elrond when they run out of other things to debate or are just feeling lazy.

Ready for the evening, Bilbo leaves his room and walks softly to the healing wards. He passes one or two other elves in the halls, and confirms with a very discrete guard posted outside the doors that the dwarrow are all safely tucked into the southern rooms he recommended earlier. From the guard’s description Gloin and another young dwarf had been by earlier attempting to see the patients and had not been happy to be turned away.

Inside, the ward is lit only by a pair of candles so the patients resting can sleep easily but the healers can still see. The youngest dwarf is restless in his sleep and Bilbo is concerned that there may be fever or infection setting in. He brushes a hand across the dwarfling’s forehead, but there is no fever and he feels nothing from the wounds.

Bilbo pushes a little deeper and finds the cause is not physical but emotional. The young Kili is worried over the fate of his brother Fili. Bilbo hasn’t checked on the others yet, but as he’s on his way to do that as soon as he finishes here he feels justified in pushing reassurance and warmth into Kili then coaxing him to sleep through the night.

Halesri has not woken since Bilbo left, and a quick examination tells the hobbit healer that the elf is healing even faster than normal and can likely be released in the morning.

Dim candlelight reflects off the black eyes and shaved head of the last patient, and Bilbo is surprised and a little concerned he hasn’t noticed Dwalin is awake. Still, he gives the dwarf a reassuring smile and brushes lightly over his bandaged ribs. There has been a little change, but not as much as there should have been since he can still feel raw cracks. Bilbo inhales against the pressure then surges his energies to sink into the bones. Now he can feel a difference and he smiles, even while Dwalin gives a little pained grunt.

“You should sleep, Master Dwalin,” Bilbo says softly.

“Will in a bit, Master Bilbo. Just worrying over what happened and what next. Have you seen the others that came with me?”

“Briefly. They are housed nearby, and I will be checking on them when I am done here. Is there a message I can carry for you?”

“Nah, likely I’ll be out o’ here before I can figure what to say. It’d be a kindness if you let Gloin and Fili in ta see their brothers, likely Thorin too, since he’s no doubt worrying himself into a lather over them.”

Bilbo smiles softly. “Certainly, if they are able I’ll be glad to. Now you rest, Master Dwalin, and I’ll see you again later.”

The hobbit leaves the ward in the same dim lighting he found it, nods to the guard and wanders down the hallway towards where the dwarrow are staying. He stops to admire a mural on the wall; it is a latticed archway with a pair of open balcony doors overlooking a garden. He knows for a fact that it is an exact duplicate of what he would see if he was standing on the balcony of the room on the other side of the wall, and is so realistic that when he first saw it a decade ago he became dizzy with the disorientation. There are a number of these paintings throughout Rivendell, and he enjoys spending time with them when there is no time to step outside.

Fortunately these last years have been quiet, but recent reports lead him to believe that will be changing soon. Orcs and goblins have been stirring in places they should not be. There is a traveling company of dwarrow in Rivendell who are bound to Erebor. There are rumors stirring of darkness in the Greenwood. A message that the White Council are bound for Rivendell to speak with Mithrandir. There is a pattern forming here, and the hobbit does not like what he is seeing.

Bilbo pulls out a pair of long, white gloves from his pocket and puts them on as he approaches the guards outside the wing, and takes a moment to wonder just _why_ there are guards there. Hands covered, he knocks on the doors and waits. Inside there are voices in a variety of conversations, many of them grumpy sounding but the doors are thick enough he cannot make out any words.

It takes a second round of knocking before the door is opened by a sharp-eyed dwarf with gingery hair in a series of points and braids. It takes Bilbo a moment to place him in the memories he has retained from the two other dwarrow, then he remembers the name.

“Master Nori,” he says, softly. “May I come in?”

The dwarf, Nori, glances over his shoulder and says something in khuzdul. Bilbo may not be able to speak the language—it would require far more time than he’s taken healing dwarrow—but he can certainly recognize the sound of it. An answer comes from inside, the voice belonging to Thorin Oakenshield, and Nori steps aside, swinging the door open.

“Be welcome, little healer.” The grin that accompanies the words is full of teeth.

Gloin is at his side as soon as Bilbo walks through the door, bowing. “Is there something we can do for ye, Master Healer?”

“Bilbo, please, Master Gloin,” Bilbo insists gently.

Gloin nods. “Then ye must call me Gloin and my brother Oin. How is he?”

“He sleeps and heals. Have no fear, we will take excellent care of him.”

Bilbo looks around and sees that the ten dwarrow in the room are still in their travel clothes, and there is no sign of food or drink. He frowns.

“Where are your belongings?” Bilbo asks Gloin.

Gloin blushes slightly. “We lost most of them with the ponies in the attack. A couple of us were carrying things, but mostly what we have is our weapons, armor and a bit of coin.”

Bilbo closes his eyes and breathes. To think that Rivendell, the Last Homely House, has neglected guests. It’s utterly outrageous and when he thinks on it he suspects it is because they are dwarrow, whether or not they have come under Mithrandir’s aegis.

Bilbo turns and opens the door, motioning to one of the guards. He doesn’t recognize the elf that answers him, so Bilbo guesses he’s new. It’s only the newest ones that haven’t come under his care at one point or another.

<Your name, good elf?> Bilbo asks.

<Lelldoran, Master Bilbo.> The elf might be new but he recognizes the only hobbit in Rivendell.

<I require food be brought, sufficient for twenty. It should be mostly meat, with cheeses, breads and herbal brews or water, perhaps a few fruits, berries if they are available in the kitchen.> Which they should be since Bilbo oversees their plantings himself.

<Lord Elrond has agreed they may stay, he said nothing of feeding them,> the elf protests. <They are just dwarrow-- >

He is cut off by a loud snort from the other guard, and when Bilbo looks he appears to be laughing into his hand. Bilbo turns back to Lelldoran and gives him a look somewhere between disgust and disappointment, and the elf suddenly feels like he has been caught trying to drop worms down his mother’s back.

<Right away, Master Bilbo,> Lelldoran cringes and rushes off down the hallway to carry out the hobbit’s orders. No one had _warned_ him about the little healer, and it just wasn’t fair!

<Stop that, Diethalain,> he scolds the other guard.

Diethalain has given up hiding his laughter and grins. <I did not realize, Master Bilbo, that they had not been brought food or drink. And clothing?>

Bilbo hums. <I’ll have it left outside the door in a basket for laundering. They are weary and injured, I’ll not have them exhausted on top of that and make more work for us all.>

Happy with his decision, Bilbo closes the door and turns to the ten pairs of eyes that are now watching him. “Now, you, Gloin, and…you, you and you,” he points to Fili, Thorin and Balin, “come with me. The rest of you I expect to have thoroughly bathed by the time I return. Please place your dirty clothing, yes, all of it, in the baskets for washing. There are plenty of towels and sheets you can wrap yourselves in while waiting.”

Several of the dwarrow protest until Bilbo waves his hands at them.

“You’ll be asleep most of the time anyways, so modesty is more than satisfied. Make sure you wash _everywhere_ my good dwarrow, and I shall attend to any minor injuries when we return. Run along now, food will be here shortly.”

He gathers the four he’d pointed out. “Master Dwalin asked that you be allowed to see your fellows, and while he did not ask for himself I feel it prudent to bring you along as well, Master Balin.”

The white-haired Balin smiles gratefully. “Your prudence is much appreciated, Master Healer Baggins.”

“Come along then,” Bilbo says, and if they make an odd sight, four battle stained dwarrow following behind a silk clad hobbit in the halls of elves, there is none but themselves to comment.

The Halls of Healing are quieter now than they were when Bilbo arrived earlier, simply because the last dwarf was now asleep as well, and although Bilbo was loathe to wake any of them, he would be willing to do so for Dwalin and Kili. There was nothing on Arda that could induce him to wake Oin.

“Please keep your voices down, the patients that could wake still need rest,” he hisses before motioning them into the room.

The golden-haired Fili scampers immediately to his brother’s side and hovers there before settling next to him on the edge of the bed. Likewise, Balin and Thorin make their ways to their relatives’ sides as quickly if with more dignity. Gloin stays with Bilbo and looks torn, worry lines appearing on his forehead.

“Would you like me to accompany you?” Bilbo asks softly. When Gloin nods Bilbo takes the dwarf’s elbow and steers him to the curtained area his brother sleeps behind.

The old dwarf sleeps, pale and shrunken, in a bed meant to hold elves and men. The longer Gloin watches his brother’s slow breaths, the paler he becomes until he is a good match for the sheets. Gloin’s face is stoic, but tears overflow their dams and run down the crevices time has worn on his face.

“When Erebor fell,” Gloin whispers, staring at his brother, “we…were separated. I was on a trading mission out of the city, due to return that day, in fact. When the dragon attacked, neither of us knew if the other lived. It was two-almost three-years before we were finally reunited, and that by accident. I had gone to the Iron Hills, while he had traveled with Thorin to Ered Luin. As soon as I found that there were survivors in the Blue Mountains, I made haste to join them hoping for news. The shock of seeing each other after so long is one of my most treasured memories.”

Bilbo pats Gloin on the shoulder and sighs, then removes both of his gloves. “It was a blessing indeed that you were able to find each other so. Give me your hand, please.”

Gloin looks up at the hobbit whose hand is outstretched and who is wiggling fingers at Gloin. He reaches out and places his hand in one that is barely half the size of his own. Instantly, both hands are surrounded by a pale, blue-gold glow.

“Now think of your brother,” Bilbo says, while reaching to touch Oin’s face. This is not something he does often or lightly, but Gloin’s story has moved him as much as Oin’s soul had earlier.  He drops down through the many layers of Oin’s thoughts, pauses to sooth a flair of pain here and there, touch some healing across one or two of the deeper wounds, until he reaches where _Oin_ is, then wraps himself around Gloin and _drags_ the younger dwarf to Oin.

Gloin is shocked. On second he is standing, looking at his so-diminished elder brother and the next he is standing in Oin’s workroom in the Blue Mountains while Oin putters with some kind of glassware.

“Oin,” he gasps, and tries to lunge forward but is dragged back by a weight around one wrist.

Oin whirls around, startled and frowning until he sees his brother. “What are you doing here!” he demands, but Gloin can see he is both happy and concerned.

“I don’t know,” Gloin admits, and he truly is not sure how he seems to be where he is.

“Remarkable,” Oin whispers, then glances down at something Gloin cannot see. “Yes, all right, I see.” Oin looks back up and hugs his brother briefly. “Only another minute, so listen, idiot. It is not your fault, you were busy protecting the youngsters’ backs and I wasn’t paying attention when I should. If I find you’ve been sulking or brooding over it like Thorin when he trips over a rock and embarrasses his kingly pride I’ll beat you myself. Now go, I’ll be fine, and take care of the hobbit, we owe him my life.”

“Love you, brother,” Gloin whispers. His eyes fill with tears and the room blurs. When he blinks he is once more standing at Oin’s bedside. The hobbit is gasping and the strong blue glow that was around their hands is a paler and watery.

Gloin looks down and his brother is there, asleep, unchanged and unmoving. “Was that really--?” he whispers.

“Yes,” Bilbo says when he has his breath back. “It is not something to be done easily or often, as it can take reserves needed for healing from the body, but I believe in this case it will help. It is as often the spirit that encourages the body to heal as it is the medicines.”

“Again you have done my family a great service, as well as one to me personally,” Gloin bows and reaches out an arm to steady the small being.

“I am simply glad to have been able to help. It was very close for him, but he will recover and have many years ahead of him.” Bilbo smiles at Gloin and motions to the surrounding curtains. “Let us join the others and then I can return you to your group and tend them.”

Stepping through, Bilbo sees that Dwalin is once more awake and talking quietly with his brother. In the dim light Bilbo can see their hands are clasped, but he is not sure just who is reassuring whom. Nearer, the dark haired Thorin has his arm around his nephew and they both sit at Kili’s feet. Bilbo can feel distress and guilt from the both of them, and while he would like to absolve them he was not there to know the circumstances. Perhaps later he will share what he knows, but there are still a dozen dwarrow to check over for lesser injuries and these four to get washed up.

“Come, let’s get you all back to your rooms. Your friends and family are healing well, and will be the better for it if you are taken care of also. And you,” Bilbo waggles a finger at Dwalin, “you sleep, or I will make you.”

Dwalin drops his head down before smiling sheepishly. He paws at the blankets a moment before Balin reaches over and straightens them for him. Balin gives Dwalin one last pat before he swiftly joins the rest at the door.

Bilbo ushers the four out the door and closes it quietly. A soft smile at the sentry and he leads the small group back to their rooms. Yelling and laughter come clearly if faintly through the closed doors. Lelldoran is looking pained while Diethelain looks torn between laughing and embarrassment.

<Is all well, Diethelain?> Bilbo asks.

Diethelain just grins and shakes his head while opening the door. <They are a lively bunch.>

“Oh my,” Bilbo gasps as he looks in.

Most of the furniture is intact and what isn’t is merrily burning on one or the other of the braziers in the large common area for the wing. Food and drink are scattered around, but what Bilbo sees are mostly crumbs and dregs. He is pleased they have eaten well, and at least appear to have bathed since several are currently engaged in a jig that requires much stomping and whirling about, the lot of them wrapped in sheets and blankets. The pungent odor of sweaty, unwashed dwarf comes from the overflowing basket near the door, and Bilbo quickly steps past it before he begins to sneeze from the dust and smell.

“Sweet Yavanna! Stop! Stop immediately!” Bilbo yells, and charges across the room, robes flapping behind him.

The dwarrow are baffled, and the music stops in a flurry of discordant notes, but when the hobbit suddenly reaches for one of them it becomes clear.

“Yavanna’s Grace! This dwarf has an axe in his head! Why wasn’t he brought in immediately? Sit! Sit! Sit!” Bilbo urges. He grabs the bewildered dwarf by an elbow and wrangles him to a low seat, aided more by the fact that the dwarf is not sure what to do than by any strength of arm.

“Nah, nah, Master Healer, old Bifur’s been that way fer years now; ain’t hurt him a bit,” says a dwarf with an odd hat and odder mustache.

“Impossible! I don’t know if you realize this, Master Dwarf, but your compatriot here has! An! Axe! In! His! Head! That is neither natural nor normal, and I am quite sure it is very much affecting him!” Bilbo bellows back, finger jabbing in the air for further emphasis.

“Master…Bifur, is it? I would like to examine this injury myself, if you will allow?” Bilbo asks the dwarf sitting in front of him. Bilbo can see now that the pink flesh is not just rawness but also scar tissue. The axe head has made a bulge in the skin, while the remains of the handle sticks out like the stump of a horn from a badly trimmed goat. Skin and scar have grown over and around the intruder but it weeps a little where they break around it. How the dwarf was still alive was a mystery; even having survived the initial injury, one solid blow in the right--or wrong--place would see his death.

Bifur, for his part, exchanges baffled and pleading looks with his cousins. Bombur is wringing his hands and Bofur looks as torn as Bifur has ever seen him. On the one hand, Bifur is lucky to be alive, and even that is because of the intervention of Prince Thorin when he’d first been injured. On the other is that the deathly wounds Oin was dealt have been treated here and the old physicker will live, thanks to the little creature glaring at the axe in Bifur’s head like it is a personal affront. Finally, Bofur just shrugs and nods while Bombur echoes it with a little agreeing bob of his own.

Bifur looks at the being that barely reaches chin high on the warrior and shrugs, nodding his head and gesturing, hoping the healer will understand what he is trying to convey. Apparently he does, because the healer’s hands begin glowing a pale blue and it takes all Bifur’s long won courage not to flinch back when they are placed on either side of his axe.

Cool peace flows through him and for the first time in longer than he can remember the aches and pains that start at the top of his skull and wrap their way along his spine before they reach fingers and toes, disappear. Their sudden lack makes him tired and all he wants is to curl up and sleep. There is another presence nearby that reminds him of his dam; it soothes him and convinces him to relax into slumber. He feels so good, so relaxed, that he does.

Bilbo casts his ability into the air between them, directing it both down through his hands and as a drifting layer to cover the wound he wants to examine. He learned his skills at the literal knees of Lord Elrond, praised as the greatest healer elvenkind has ever seen. He has learned almost as much from the great library of Rivendell, and has copies of works from as far away as Gondor on various injuries and ailments of the races and their treatments. Copies of Bilbo’s own works on hobbits lie in the libraries of Rivendell and Gondor in exchange.

Extending himself, Bilbo can see how the wound formed and the damage done. Amazingly, he finds there is much less damage from the initial injury than he feared, and most of the problem comes from how the body has protected itself from the foreign object left behind. In a corner of his thoughts he realizes that the healers who treated this dwarf were nowhere near the ability of Oin, and likely thought the dwarf would die of his injuries regardless of treatment. That he has lived so many years since gives testament to the hardiness of dwarrow and the will of this dwarf.

Gently he smooths over some rawness and cuts off a minor infection before it can develop further. The rest of the dwarf’s body reveals minor aches and several bruises that Bilbo tends to with barely a twinge of his own; bruising is so common he has come to disregard the discomfort as little more than a surface itch. When he resurfaces he leaves Bifur in a healing sleep to rejuvenate him in preparation for tomorrow’s work.

Bilbo comes back to himself and remembers only then that he has left his kit in his rooms, so he hopes the still room in this wing has what he will need. Hot water, certainly, but he is less certain of the altheas or robes, or even the towels considering a dozen dwarrow have been bathing here. His forehead itches and when he scratches it his fingers come away tacky with dark, nearly dried blood.

Yelling and commotion bring him the rest of the way out of himself, and he finds Gloin in a screaming argument with the dwarf wearing only a hat and and a sheet.

“…and I don’t yet know how ye did it but you’ll not be going near him again!” Gloin thunders, brandishing a heavy, short-hafted axe at the other. His voice is gruff, raw, and Bilbo can see the whites of Gloin’s eyes surrounding the colored part in panic.

“What seems to be the trouble, friend Gloin?” Bilbo inserts himself between the two dwarrow, forcing them further apart.

“Bilbo! Are ye well, lad? Yer bleeding from yer head! What did they do?” Gloin is nearly frantic, reaching for the hobbit with his empty hand.

Bilbo steps back and sighs, understanding now what has happened. While Gloin’s defense is appreciated, it has created an awkward moment for the hobbit healer.

Hands up, Bilbo wards the red-bearded warrior off. “My apologies, friend Gloin, I should have warned you. There are no injuries, it is simply the way my ability manifests.” Taking a discarded hand towel he dips it in a cup of water and scrubs the now flaking blood streaks from his forehead. No doubt there are traces in his hair as well, but those will have to wait until he can bathe again. “There, see? No injuries, so no need to threaten your companions, although I do thank you for it.”

Bilbo glances around, spotting a bowl of rolls and some cheese as well as fruit left on the table, but he wants to clean up first. He turns back to the patiently waiting Bofur, feeling the anxiety rolling off the be-hatted dwarf.

“Give me a few moments to recover, Master Bofur,” he says, trying his best to be reassuring, “and then we can speak. Your cousin should sleep several hours, if not through to morning so don’t be concerned.”

Giving Gloin a nod, Bilbo heads for the small stillroom that he knows is across the garden. Skirting around the long table he grabs a roll and an apple to hold him. His energies are quite low and the creeping, shaky feeling he gets from overextending himself is starting in his shoulders. He is in no danger of fainting, thanks be to Yavanna, but food and rest will be very necessary soon.

Out the arched doors and across the small courtyard garden he finds the stillroom door and is pleased that the supplies here have been recently freshened. It is something that both he and Lord Elrond agree on; one never knows when or where an emergency will occur, and it’s best to be prepared.

He dips a basin in a barrel of water and adds a touch of talent to bring it to gently steaming before shredding a handful of altheas and nettle into it. He swirls it gently to mix before shedding his robe and pulling some toweling from a nearby shelf. With practiced ease he washes his hands and then dampens a towel, scrubbing at his hair and scalp until the remaining drying blood is gone and the basin water turns pinkish.

Satisfied, Bilbo tosses the water and leaves on a very healthy compost pile outside then prepares a batch of herbal tea for the inevitable aches, pains and upsets the dwarrow are no doubt experiencing, whether they will admit to them or not. Clean up takes only a few more minutes, and he is nearly done when movement catches his eye at the door.

Gloin is there, patiently waiting, leaning slightly against the door. To Bilbo he looks uncomfortable, and the lightest touch along the dwarf’s emotions reveals confusion, fear and near overwhelming relief. The combination has thrown the dwarf for a dizziness close to intoxication. He is also still in full travel regalia, and stands with one hand on the haft of a heavy war hammer.

“Friend Gloin, you’ve not refreshed yourself,” Bilbo half asks, half states. He dries his hands one last time and reaches for his discarded robe before collecting the tea he has mixed.

“Just wanted to make sure you were all right, Master Healer,” Gloin says, and shuffles his feet nervously.

“Oh, I’m fine, and well enough to see to you and the rest of your cohort,” Bilbo answers with a small smile; it’s the truth, as the nettle infusion has restored much of his energy, and he doubts there are any worse injuries than what he’s already seen. They cross the yard in only a few minutes and Bilbo waves Gloin off. “Go see you yourself, then return so I can be assured you’re not hiding something that could worsen.”

With an acknowledging nod Gloin heads to where Bilbo knows the bathing rooms should be, and considers the dwarf may have been stalling to allow the heated water from the springs to refill the tanks that run to the room.

Bofur ambushes him as soon as Bilbo steps back into the room, the rotund Bombur right behind and—oddly—Thorin as well. Although perhaps not so odd, as he is supposed to be the leader of this group. Bilbo considers that a moment. Yes, he would have thought worse of the dwarf if he hadn’t shown his concern for one who was sworn to him.

“So…er…Master Healer, sir,” Bofur fumbles both his words and his hat, juggling the moth-eaten thing a time or two before his grip is solid. He blushes slightly. “Bifur, can you…fix…him?”

His question is tentative, and Bilbo frowns because this is not the personality he has seen in their memories. The miner-dwarf is brash and a little crude from what he has seen, but perhaps Bofur simply fears the answer.

“Fix him? No Master Bofur,” Bilbo starts with and watches the faces of the dwarrow around him fall. Even Thorin’s he notes, somehow pleased that this would be king can care for even the least of his guard. “I cannot fix him, as there is nothing wrong with him. His body has simply healed in a way to compensate for a foreign object left in it, much like rubbing ash in a shallow cut will cause it to scar in a lump.”

Bilbo sees the baffled looks on the three dwarrow’s faces at the odd topic and gives them a reassuring smile. “I will see him in the Halls of Healing immediately after breakfast.”

The hobbit healer’s heart thumps and he feels his usual professional smile break into a wide grin when Bofur cheers and jumps into Bombur’s arms, the wild laugh more like what he’d heard in Oin’s memories.

Bilbo raises his hands to collect their attention. “Please understand, there have been changes in the way his body and mind work; I cannot guarantee he will be exactly as before, but there will no longer be the risk from the axe itself. I also think that you will find many of his old skills will be his again, with some work.”

“And how long will this take? What of recovery time?” Thorin asks from beside him.

Bilbo smiles back at the dwarf. “The removal itself will take perhaps an hour, to close the wound perhaps another, so long as nothing goes wrong.” Bilbo holds up a hand to forestall the objection he already sees in the other’s eyes. “It is unlikely, but nothing is guaranteed in this world. So, afterwards, he will remain in a healing sleep for three days while we monitor him, much as we are doing for Master Oin at the moment. After that, we shall see what we shall see.”

Thorin blows out a breath, looks away then back at the healer that has sealed the loyalty of almost half his Company; including himself, he realizes in a moment of honesty. The healer’s care of those under Thorin’s banner has won him a place in their regard, even if the hobbit will never know of it. Suddenly it occurs to Thorin that he owes the Master Healer an apology for having spoken so harshly. It may have been out of concern for his cousin’s care, but that should not have been an excuse.

“Master Healer, I would like to apologize for my hasty and ill-thought-out words earlier; the only excuse I can offer is concern for my kinsmen and brother. I will make any recompense you require.”

Bilbo smiles and pats the dwarf on the arm gently. “I understand, and I assure you it’s not the worst I’ve had thrown at me in moments like that. Emotions run high and we all forget ourselves.”

Thorin bows his head, wisps of dark hair momentarily form a gossamer veil over his face before he brushes it back. There has been little time in the last few days to attend to anything as minor as appearances, and he is looking forward to the opportunity to set himself to rights. The hobbit’s brief touch on his arm leaves warm spots of comfort and he finds himself strangely yearning for more.

Or perhaps, he thinks, it’s not so strange. Comfort is something he rarely experiences in his life, something he long ago gave up on unless it was to provide it for others.

“I am humbled by your graciousness, Master Healer,” Thorin answers. A response Balin would be proud of, he thinks.

Bilbo chuckles at the dwarf’s earnestness. Humbled? Hardly. “Go and bathe, Master Oakenshield, so I can finish here and let you all sleep. Look, even Master Gloin has finished,” he nods in the direction of the bathing rooms.

Thorin turns his head and yes, Gloin is coming towards them, filthy clothing in hand and a sheet wrapped around and around him. The Dwarf King nods to the hobbit one more time then heads for the baths himself, anxious to both be clean and to perhaps feel that touch of comfort again.

 

 


	4. Far To the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OFC Hobbit in place of Bilbo. A collection of scenes built around the idea--Mouse is a priestess of Yavanna whose voice is a weapon. Blatant use of a couple of the great Anne McCaffery's ideas (bless her!). *Sign language*

Far to the West, hidden in a Deep Valley between two Very Tall Mountains and surrounded by a Very, Very Old Forest, was a little country called The Shire. And in the very Middle of The Shire was the Town of Hobbiton, wherein lived a Very Old, Very Respected Family named Baggins. The Baggins family was old and respected and wealthy among their people; a people who were neither Man nor Elf nor Dwarf, but were called simply Hobbits. 

Hobbits live in holes in the ground. Not smelly, messy, dirty holes, full of tree roots and worm ends, but warm, happy, comfortable holes with cheery fireplaces, warm blankets and soft beds. They preferred cheerful colors as well, although they liked best those colors found in their surroundings like grassy greens and earthy browns. For Hobbits were the Children of Yavanna and often called her the Great Mother or the Green Lady, although sometimes they mixed the two and called her the Green Mother or the Great Lady. She never seemed to mind.

As one of the oldest families in The Shire, the Baggins’ of course had a certain amount of standing. If Hobbits had ever had any use for royalty, then they would have been among the highest of ranks. Hobbits did recognize that they needed some kind of leader, if only to have someone to blame when a cow went missing, so the Master of Bag End (so named for the shape of the place, much like the bottom of a grocery bag) became it for the Hobbits of Hobbiton and the surrounding area, much like the Master of Buck Hall managed Buckland, and the Thain ruled over the ever-expanding, wandering Tooks. And so they lived, generation after generation, until Hobbits were little more than strange tales told by stranger wanderers.

Then Bungo Baggins wooed and won the hand of Belladonna Took, and for certain other races the future—changed.

The Baggins-Took wedding was the social event of the season and was celebrated by the entire Shire with a week of heavy eating, song, dance, drink and a fireworks show paid for by the Thain himself. Before the couple left the wedding feast the Old Took was drawing up an agreement to foster the couple’s children with the Master of Buckland in hopes of creating a match that would draw the disparate families back together. It was a hope that would bear some fruit in the future.

Fauntlings being what fauntlings are, Bungo and Belladonna eventually had three stout little ones, though each took their toll on their mother’s health. Bilbo was the eldest and only boy, born a year and a day after the wedding, an auspicious date according to those hobbits that paid attention. Bilbo’s birth was long and difficult, leaving Belladonna tied to bed and couch for several months before her full strength returned. The boy, Bilbo, was a true Baggins through and through, with dark, chocolatey waves and when his eyes turned from newborn blue they settled on warm cocoa. Wisteria came some five summers later, born early in the season and looking forward to a full summer’s growth and fall harvest before she would have to feel the first nips of winter frost. Wisteria’s birth was even harder than Bilbo’s, and while Belladonna seemed to recover her strength faster, she was much paler thereafter, without the energy she had as a youth. Wisteria was the epitome of a Took daughter, with golden curly locks and eyes blue as her birth sky.

When ten more years passed with only one false carry, Bungo and Belladonna thought they would have no more. While Belladonna mourned the lack of large family still she loved her two littles to pieces. Bungo adored his serious son and sunny daughter almost as much as he worshipped his wife. And if in the deep of the night he occasionally passed a grateful prayer to Yavanna that his Bella bore no more to risk her health that was between him and the Green Lady.

The Green Lady, it seemed, had other plans.

Twelve years after Wisteria’s birth, Belladonna Baggins, formerly Took, found herself with child. She counted months and added days, then asked the midwife to do the same. Both ladies decided on the same week, within a day or two of each other. The faunt would be born near the winter solstice, deep in the coldest, darkest, riskiest time. Other faunts had, of a surety, been born in the same time in the past but few of them prospered, hidden from Yavanna’s grace as they had to be for simple survival.

Cautiously happy, the Baggins family rallied together and set about making sure the new faunt would have everything he or she would need to make it through. Thin, summer weight blankets were stitched together to make heavier, insulated blankets to ward off chills. Needles clicked together every night to make booties and caps by the dozen. Extra food was laid in, and one of the spare rooms set aside for the midwife in case the snows were heavier than thought. Every type of supply imaginable was stocked and stocked again in anticipation of the winter birth.

Belladonna’s contractions began three days shy of the Longest Night. Two days later her waters finally broke, drenching her labor robe and causing the midwife to bustle her into the bed and call for Bungo to stoke the fire. A pot of water was quickly set to heat and Healer Marigold sent him from the room with strict instructions to prepare everything for the babe, and, “make sure those two littles get fed as well Master Baggins.”

_______ 

 

“Your burglar has failed to appear, Gandalf. Perhaps he had another appointment?” Thorin smirked at the wizard that rode next to him, grin widening at the disgruntled look on the Maia’s face. The dwarf held his hand out, wiggling his fingers for attention and the purse of coin he knew he’d won.

Gandalf scowled while he reached inside his cloak, then suddenly jerked and his face lit with a smile. “I believe the bet was for leaving the Shire, and as we have not yet left the Shire until we pass over the river your claim may be early.”

The wizard’s smile grew from on top of his horse and nodded towards a some shade under a tree off the path and just before the boundary bridge that would take the Company out of the Shire and in the wilds of Breeland

Thorin spotted what the Grey Wizard was looking at and cursed under his breath before reining in his pony and motioning to those behind him to stop. Both Dwalin and Balin moved up from behind, and the clip-clop of hooves told him likely his sister-sons had joined them.

From under the trees a heavily hooded and cloaked figure nudged an oddly colored pony into view, heading straight for the wizard. Thorin took a moment to examine the being, recognizing in a moment it was the hobbit that had threatened to burn their cloaks!

The hobbit was shorter than their host had been, even shorter than the cheerful, flighty sister that had joined them later, although only by an inch. Beyond height and presumed race, it had been near impossible to tell anything else about them, and it was no easier now. A good grey cloak covered what looked like a long leather coat, the hood pulled up and an equally grey scarf wrapped around face and neck, the whole of it topped with a broad-brimmed, flat-crowned grey hat. The coat was long sleeved and the Hobbit wore fine grey gloves of some kind, visible on the one hand that held a rolled up scroll while the other guided an oddly grey and black thing that looked like a long nosed and longer legged pony with little tufts of hair on the tips of its oversized ears. A pair of packs were fastened to the back, and a short, iron footed shepherd’s crook was sheathed in front.

Balin started forward and reached for the rolled parchment, only to snatch his hand back to miss being swatted with it. Thorin ignored the stunned expression on his advisor and friend’s face when the scroll was extended to the wizard next to him. A moment later and the newly emptied hand began flashing signs at Gandalf.

“Iglishmek!” a voice blurted out, and the Hobbit and Maia both turned to look at Fili. The prince flushed and ducked his head when the two grey wearing riders both turned their heads to look at him. Something in the back of Fili’s mind told him the two were both wearing “oh look at the cute puppy” faces, even though Gandalf’s was the only one visible.

In fact, Gandalf chucked at the outburst. “Did you think, Master Fili, that only Dwarrow had folk that needed another way to speak? Mouse hasn’t spoken a word in thirty-three—what?” He glanced down at the tug on his sleeve and nodded at the interruption. “My apologies, Mouse, thirty-four years.”

He cast his gaze around the gathered Dwarrow. “I take it you all speak Iglishmek, more or less?”

“Aye,” Thorin spoke for all of them. “Our honored brother Bifur, you know, has difficulty with speech, and often uses the hand language instead. We are all fluent to an extent,” he added, looking at the hobbit.

_Good. There are changes made to your contract, duly initialed and awaiting your signature next to them. Why a Baggins was needed when a Took or Brandybuck would have been better I know not, but the wizard has gotten his way._

The Hobbit’s hands flashed almost too quickly for Thorin to read, but he’d be damned if he asked this being to repeat itself. Instead, he determined to improve his own hand language; it could only be a benefit after all.

 _______

 

Limping and stumbling the Company fled, the warg bays and orc howls singing behind them. Mouse swore in her head even while she urged Oin on, the ancient healer trembling in pain and stress under her hand on his back.

“Into the trees!” Gandalf shouted, his call taken up by the fighters covering their rear, then Mouse found herself and Oin being lifted by Fili and Kili into the lowest branches of a towering, windswept pine.

The last of the Company scrambled into the branches not a moment too soon as the pack burst into the clearing through the brush. Mouse quickly counted it as thirty warg and a dozen orc, approaching from the only way off their ledge unless the Company could fly, and she’d never heard of a dwarf with wings.

The pack milled around below them, yowling and yapping with the orcs in the Black Speech of the Enemy, and Mouse shuddered at their words. The tree rocked under her, nearly sending herself and the four other Dwarrow sheltering there to the ground. She had a glimpse of Gloin, pale as moonlight where he gripped tight to his brother on one side and the base of the branch in the other. Oin was trying to tie them to the branch using smaller, suppler branches, while Kili above her was trying to meld himself to the narrower trunk.

 _I’ll need to start calling him elf if he’s going to be acting like the “tree-shaggers” he despises,_ the irreverent thought almost brought her to hysterical laughter, quickly cut off by the tree shaking again. A quick look down showed her the wargs leaping against it again and again, trying to force it over by their weight, and from the angle they would succeed.

A sharp word and a flaming arc passed across the dusk sky, followed by a tree full of Dwarrow war-cries and more flaming objects from the tree Gandalf was in. The half-dozen Dwarrow were lighting pinecones on fire and tossing them at the wargs to drive them off!

Already she could see some with singe marks in their fur where they danced and rolled to avoid sparks, but it was just as clear the trees would fall before the Company could do enough damage to drive them away.

It had been nice, she thought, to have company for a while. She would miss it; Bofur’s hat and Ori’s knitting, Bombur’s cooking and Balin’s stories from around Arda, but in the end the lives of these Dwarrow were worth far more to the future than her own. And if the Great Lady willed it and the worst happened she still might see them in another life.

The tree she was in tipped a little further and she scrambled to hold on. It was easy to see that one or two more good blows and it would fall completely, or at least enough for the wargs and orcs to easily run up it. It took only a moment to find her footing on the trunk and rise shakily to her feet.

“Mouse!” Kili yelled from above her, “What are you doing? Come higher up!”

The youngest Durin reached for her but he’d strapped himself too well and would have to spend precious time undoing it. Instead, Mouse motioned sharply, hand speaking her directions then miming covering her ears with her hands before throwing a sweeping gesture around.

Quick on the uptake, Kili nodded then yelled, “Cover your ears! Cover your ears!” and added actions to words.

One last prayer to the Great Lady for the best and Mouse inhaled once, twice, and held the third deep breath, drawing herself as tall and proper as if she was before the altar on a Praise Day.

Then she opened her mouth—and sang.

The song itself was nothing special; in fact it was a rather bawdy drinking song, if one knew the words. What she sought with it was not the words but the structure, for it was a round song, and each time around the catchy little tune rose faster and higher, made for the whole bar from deepest sire Hobbits to highest dammas to join in. She worked her way around quickly, and before the first round had begun to fade to the second the wargs were dropping to the ground in front of her, sitting patiently as she willed it. The second round caught more of them and while they waited and the first ones began to sway and wag their tails, she saw a few of the orcs begin to turn towards them. By the third time the entire pack was watching, and faintly she heard some of the Dwarrow exclaiming in surprise and the small fires begin to die out.

In the fourth round, pale movement forced its way slowly through the pack, a white-skinned orc with a mace in hand—no a mace *as* hand—moving to the front, half scowling, have dazed. Mouse knew she was out of time, if one could throw off the thrall she’d woven then it could wake others and the Company would die here. Quickly she wound through the fifth verse, pitching her voice higher and higher. Now the wargs were beginning to fidget, to whine, a few covering tender ears with paws while the dazed riders took no note.

It was now or never, so she forced her voice up and up, holding the high note forever while the wargs howled and the orcs screamed.

And then she broke it.

Madness claimed the night. Wargs screamed and rolled, frothed and bit while blood flowed from ears and eyes and noses. They scratched and gnawed, ripping at anything in the way including themselves. From the corner of her eye she could see the pale orc fleeing with three others while the white warg went down, legs crushed and throat missing. In mere seconds of rabid fury the pack was destroyed.

It was as the last orc fell and the last warg died of its wounds that the eagles came and plucked them from the leaning trees.

The flight was short but cold, dropping the Company on a carrack only a few miles from the orcs but far enough away they could escape with a little determination. Mouse could see a patch of woods down below, with a few long, low hills. By the time they landed the sun was nearly over the horizon and beginning to warm the air around them, and Mouse wanted nothing more than to kiss the solid ground before she lay down and sleep for a day or two.

“And here we are, safe and whole. Now, Thorin--,” Gandalf started, stepping close to the uncrowned king to continue in some privacy.

No, there was one thing she wanted more than that.

In a flash she lunged for Dwalin and ripped one of his beloved axes off his back before he could do much more than yelp in surprise. The war axe was heavier than it looked when she’d seen Dwalin wielding it in battle; even in her fury she felt her respect grow for the Dwarrow’s strength, that he could use it one handed while wielding its mate in the other. Still, she had enough determination to make herself spin around once and hurl the heavy, sharpened steel at the damnedable wizard.

What would have happened had she struck true would only be a matter of idle gossip since Thorin spotted the whirling blade and shoved them both to the ground. Mouse lunged after it, ready to inflict justice on the arrogant Maia by clawing his eyes out but strong arms wrapped around her from behind stopped her cold.

How dare he! Agent of the Valar he might be, but he’d overstepped this time and Mouse was going to make sure he paid for it. She squirmed and fought, a red and black haze taking over her vision while air hissed soundlessly from her open mouth, teeth bared. She heard shouts in the distance and for a moment the ground moved away from her before steel bands and weighted rocks pinned her down. She writhed and bucked, feeling one leg come free and she kicked out, connecting with something hard that cried out in pain.

To the Dwarrow it was eerie and frightening; one moment they had been standing on solid ground, reassuring themselves of their survival and prepared to question their burglar about what happened. The next, steel was flashing and Dwalin was yelling for help with while he struggled with the tiny creature that was flailing arms and legs and squirmier than a cat avoiding water. In the end it took five of them to hold the Hobbit down and even then Bofur took a solid whack when he lost his grip on a leg.

Then Thorin was in the middle of them all, gripping the Hobbit’s head and turning it to face him.

“Mouse, what is it? What’s wrong? No!” Savagely, Thorin wrenched their burglar back to see him. Green eyes glared back, and he was sure under the tattered scarf teeth were bared. “Calm, Mouse,” Thorin tried to make his voice soothing, catch and hold the hot green eyes with his own and show the concern and pride he felt at knowing this small creature who had saved them all.

Something got through, he thought, or perhaps the Hobbit was simply exhausted. He’d seen more than enough dwarrow in a battlerage to recognize it, and knew the signs of it fading just as well. Mouse would be well and truly exhausted, likely to pass out when the rush completely wore off. Slowly but surely the bucking stilled to shudders and small jerks of arm and leg and the green fury in the hobbit’s eyes began to fade from inferno bright.

“Easy, Mouse,” Thorin crooned, striving for the gentleness he’d used when his nephews were as tiny as the warrior he tried to calm. “We’re going to let you up now,” he said when the twitches finally stilled and eyelids started to droop.

He glanced up at Dwalin with a silent command to ease back but stay near. The dwarrow holding down the hobbit let go with soft pats and murmured words but didn’t stray far from the act in their midst. It was only when the muscles under his hand went completely lax that Thorin started to pull back, watching for several minutes until he was sure the hobbit was asleep.

“We’ll start down once the sun clears the horizon,” Thorin said to Dwalin, quietly. “Our burglar should be recovered by then; if not, we’ll have to take turns carrying him—“

“—her.”

Thorin blinked. “What?”

Dwalin leaned closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I had my arms around her, brother, there’s no mistaking what’s under those robes belongs on a lass, not a lad.”

Thorin felt a headache coming on. “Mahal take it,” he swore quietly, then paused. “Regardless, he—she! All right? Has held up her part, and we’ll not be mentioning this to the boys. If they found out---“

A shout from behind him made him whirl around just in time to see the hobbit off the ground and lunging for a startled wizard who was trying to fend off the little wildcat without hurting her. The two dwarrow swapped grins before forcing a more sober look and trotting over to rescue their wizard.

“Five on the hobbit!” Fili’s voice rang over the carrack.

“Ten on the wizard!” Kili yelled back. “He’s got reach!”

But fortunately for the wizard’s hide--although disappointing to the Durin heirs--there was no rescuing necessary. Instead the hobbit was doing the Igleshmek version of yelling; broad gestures and flailing arms included. Unfortunately, she was yelling so fast Thorin couldn’t follow, although he heard what might have been a shocked laugh from Bifur.

*You worthless piece of bird crap! You play with lives and then claim ignorance! I know you Istari, I know where you stand in the councils of the great. You give half answers and then show your greatness by rescuing those who follow the breadcrumbs you leave behind. If we had all died there would it suit your plans? Or did you plan on that trap so we would be indebted to you for rescue, the great Gandalf comes with allies! Well?*

The Grey Wizard seemed to shrink before the hobbit’s wild gestures. “Is that truly how you see me?” he asked sadly.

*That is how your actions portray you, Greyhame. But have no fear, my words have no impact on those who influence the affairs of Arda, your reputation is safe.*

“But not my reputation with you.”

*No. For that, you would have to change your actions, and so far your actions have suited your own plans. Now either stay and finish out this quest or be gone and let it play out as it will.*

 

\------- 

 

Grumbling, Thorin followed the river upstream from camp, checking the depth as he went for a good place to soak before scrubbing himself and his clothes. He’d travelled light, like the rest of the Company, and all three of his changes were worn to almost nothing. Hopefully the Men of Lake Town would have something they could barter for.

A change in pitch of the running river drew his attention back to where he was; from the sound, there was a small fall ahead, an excellent place to get clean, even if it wasn’t deep enough to soak. Cursing at the stubborn greenery that seemed determined to thwart him (just like everything else they’d encountered so far), he pushed through to the space under a willow and dropped his things before starting to strip. The tree grew right at the edge and its graceful branches arced over the stream, leaving a private and sheltered spot for the Dwarrow King to enjoy.

Boots off and shirt half unlaced, Thorin would never know what caused him to freeze and reach for his long dagger. A too loud splash to be a fish, perhaps, or maybe a bird call that shouldn’t have been there. Whatever the reason he stepped carefully to the edge of his hidden area and slowly parted the thick green shroud. At first glance there was nothing—no stray worg or orc, no tree-hugging elf, not even a deer that would have at least provided dinner for the Company if he had a luck shot.

Then the water in front of the little waterfall splashed, and a nymph rose from the shallows.

It was only covering his own mouth with his hand that stopped the astonished noise in his throat. The nymph rose out of the pool with her back to him, and for a moment all he could make out was long lengths of hair colored dark cherry from the water, late sunlight sparking lighter reds and golds here and there in the strands. He had no clear view of her body, thank Mahal for his dignity, but the slight curve of her hip was sweetly rounded and soft over flexing muscle as she waded to shore. A delicious, squirming lapful; something his suddenly aching body wanted to wrap itself around.

Thorin closed his eyes and groaned to himself when it suddenly occurred to him that he was inadvertently spying on the Company Hobbit, and while he’d not doubted his brother’s word, he was in the prime position to confirm the “he or she” bet. He peeked through one squinting eye to see if she’d left yet, and saw her looking in his direction, although he was sure she hadn’t seen him; a lovely heart shaped face despite the tiny nose, complemented by full lips and large eyes that glowed the dark green of an uncut emerald.

Suddenly, she turned away from him and he could just see her mouth move, words in a language he didn’t recognize raising ripples on the surface of the pool. A fish broke the surface and _looked_ at her, before flipping its tail and diving back down. Taking the opportunity given, Thorin moved further back into the shadow of the willow and when he looked again a few minutes later, body once more under control, she was gone.

And if he spent his bath having parts of him lightly nibbled by fish, well, the only ones to know for sure were him and the fish, and he refused to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing he had a fish bite on his buttock.

 -------

Mouse could feel the blackness of the hallways swallowing her as soon as she stepped through the door, the torch Balin carried to light the way casting no more than a momentary glow that made the shadows darker in contrast. The silence was as thick as the darkness, cut only by the soft whisper of Balin’s steps behind her.

Down, down and down they went, the corridor twisting around them, Balin occasionally catching her elbow while he stopped to remember left or right. The slope continued down, she noticed, but the walls stayed dry, and when she touched the stonework it wasn’t an illusion caused by clingy dust.

Eventually she noticed the air begin to warm and the dust on the wall begin to blacken. Glancing back the elder dwarf was pale, eyes wide and pupils shot, and while she watched a tiny drop of sweat trailed down the side of his face.

Panic, she realized suddenly. No doubt the last time Balin had been within these walls he had been fleeing for his life, separated from his family, unable to help his friends, nothing to do but run.

Impulsively she rested her hand on his arm, pushing it down so she could take the torch.

 _How much further? Which way?_ She signed in front of his eyes to attract his sight.

 _Not far,_ he signed back, habit and good sense if the dragon still lived. *Straight ahead.*

He paused and shook his head. *I’m fine.*

She cut him off with a flick of her own fingers. *Wait here. I will return shortly. Should you hear anything, run.*

Mouse barely waited for his nod before she turned back.  There was something very, very strange going on, had been since they first began to climb the mountain. Maybe it was shock that they could possibly succeed, but that somehow didn’t strike right in her heart. No matter, she would soon find out, for better or worse, and something told her it would be for much the worse.

Balin was correct in that it was, in fact, only a few minutes more before she caught the gleam of something that wasn’t torchlight reflected off stone. She slowed and studied what she saw before her, and recognized the gleam of scattered gold in the hall, and a few feet beyond that the high arching doorway that no doubt led to the entry hall and Smaug’s Hoard.

*…a dragon knows every stone and coin and thread and bone in its hoard. Should a beetle walk across the furthest piece in the dankest, darkest corner, the beast would be able to tell if the beetle had six legs to make that journey or only five….”

The two weeks she’d spent in Rivendell’s library reading up on dragonlore tossed the thought into her head. Whether true or not, she had no intentions of finding out just yet. Instead, she squatted down and studied where the coins lay and thought about everything the Company had told her; about Thrain and Thror, about the city of Erebor. She thought about the people and how they fled and where the dragon made his bed. And finally, she pictured what that great room would look like now, with columns damaged and piles of treasure gathered in great mounds.

And when she finished thinking, she stood up and traced her footsteps back up to where she had left Balin, then the two of them climbed up and stepped back out into the winter frost.

Thorin was the first to accost them. “Well?” he demanded.

Balin looked at Mouse to see if the hobbit would answer, and when nothing was forthcoming he shrugged. “The way is clear and solid. Whether the dragon still lives the hobbit might know although I suspect it is so just from the increase in heat. This long without life in its halls, Erebor should have been much colder.”

As a group the dwarrow turned to the hobbit, impatiently waiting for an answer, and she gave it to them, fingers dancing in the firelight.

*I will need several things in order to complete this task. You must supply them without question. None are very difficult, but may take a little time and effort. *

“What will you need?”

Under her scarf, Mouse smiled and began her list.  *I need three barrels of hot water, two beeswax candles, the rose oil Dori uses in his hair--*

“—It’s not rose oil! It’s lavender!—“

“Yes, that’s so much better.”

*--my pack, some privacy, and the absolute sworn oath on penalty of the direst of consequences that the Company of Thorin Oakenshield of the line of Durin will never, ever speak of what occurs here. Also that they will all obey my command until I free them or seven days pass from the next time I travel down the passage with the intent to face Smaug.*

For several long minutes Mouse was sure Thorin was going to call the whole thing off over the oath; the Company’s loyalty to him was something he’d demonstrated time and again as the only thing that kept him on the path to Erebor. That unquestioning faith in him and his judgment was something he clung to like an opossum baby to its mother’s back.

“Two barrels,” the King-to-Be Under the Mountain counteroffered.

In her head, Mouse laughed; here he was standing just outside his goal, wind whipping his glorious, tangled hair, dirty, bedraggled and bearing a half-dozen new scars, and still the dwarf had to haggle. She wished hand language could share the laughter she felt.

*No. Three is the least I can use,* she answered. *Besides, this is covered in the contract under supplies.*

“Very well, but if your plan fails the cost comes out of your share.” And with a final snort Thorin walked away from her.

She supposed he was going to arrange for her demands, which would take a while to send a messenger back to Lake Town to arrange for what she wanted. So she was greatly surprised when only a day later a Man with a cart could be seen approaching the base of the mountain.

“Dwalin, Gloin, Dori that should be the supplies our Burglar wanted; see to bringing them up, take who you need. There should be firewood as well so if you need extra hands take them with you.”

The three dwarves named separated themselves from the small camp they’d set just inside the hidden doors. The night wind had finally proven too much for even the hardiest of dwarves to stand against for an entire watch, so they had moved their supplies and bedding into the more sheltered reaches of the hall. None of them, however, were foolish enough to travel beyond the reach of daylight; who could tell how far Smaug’s reach was?

Three hours later and her barrels were heating, slowly being warmed through heated rocks dumped inside and the constant exchange of water using a pair of cookpots. Truly the dwarves were ingenious, raising the barrels quickly through a combination of ropes, pulleys, greased rocks and brute force. She had no idea Dori even knew some of those words, less likely he’d ever say them.

While she waited for the water to heat, Mouse turned her attention to the candles, each as long as her forearm and looked to be of good, solid beeswax, the faintest scent of honey still clinging to them. Carefully she held them near the fire, working the wax soft enough to pull the wicking from them then breaking what was left apart into lumps. Bifur squatted next to her, working the second candle as she had the first, pulling the wicking but leaving it to her to pull apart once the wax was soft.

Under her scarf she felt herself smiling; dear Bifur, her protector on this journey. Perhaps they’d grown close at first because of the common speech, but she’d quickly become fond of him in his own right. Gentle behind the fierceness, refusing pity from anyone over what he’d lost with his wound. If the Green Lady was willing, if she lived past the dragon maybe she could aid with the injury. From what she’d seen it had healed fairly well, the skin thick and scarred and the bone solid around the metal, but even if she was only able to smooth it out, make it so the handle could be removed without further injury, it would be little enough payment for his protection and patience.

*What is the wax for?* the warrior signed.

*Ears,* Mouse answered. *It will prevent accidents.*

*We are all going then? Much better than just you.*

Mouse shook her head. *No, but I have no wish to take chances. Madness lies that way.*

She thought about it for a moment. *Kili must go, for his skill with the bow and I had thought to take Thorin since it is his quest.*

Mouse glanced around, but the Company was not paying attention to the silent discussion while the two ‘played with wax’ as Dwalin had put it.

*I have found your king,* she hesitated, *disturbing these last few days. There is a look to his eyes I do not trust.*

Bifur frowned. *He is my king and I’ll follow him to his death and mine.*

Mouse leaned over and rested a hand on the dwarf’s arm. *Your loyal heart is one of your greatest graces, dear Master Bifur. I’ll not ask you to betray it. Who, then, would you suggest?*

Bifur grunted then growled something incomprehensible in a mutter of Khuzdul and Westron while he cast his eyes over the company. Dwalin was even more of the king’s dwarf than Bifur was, and had often voiced his distrust of the hobbit. Balin was too old, tho’ feared in his day, while Fili was Thorin’s heir. Neither Bofur nor Bombur would suit, and not just because they were his close kin. Oin was a healer and Gloin distrusted Mouse nearly as much as Dwalin. That left the Ri brothers, and of them Nori was best suited but this time it was Bifur’s distrust that held him back. He sighed, truly Thorin and himself were the only ones left, and if dear Mouse didn’t trust Thorin that left only him.

Bifur’s growl this time was entirely wordless even to himself. *All right, tell me your plan.*

Mouse’s shoulders shook in silent laughter. *First, you take a bath….*

Another hour passed and the three barrels of water were finally warm. Bifur and Kili looked on with apprehension as their hobbit poured generous amounts of Dori’s flowered oils into the water then handed them each a bar of soap.

*Strip. Bathe. Scrub everything and wash your clothing,* the hobbit signed to them before giving them each a shove.

“But…but we’ll smell like flowers!” Kili wailed, backing away from the gently steaming water.

“At least it’ll take the edge off the way you smell now!” Gloin roared from the crowd behind them, bursting into laughter at the crude sign the youngest Durin waved in Gloin’s direction. “Hey now! That’s hardly language befitting a Royal!”

The Company laughed louder at that, egging each other on about “smelling like an elf!” and “fancy-pants men!”

Having mercy on the two grumbling dwarves Mouse stuck her hand in front of Kili’s face. *It is to make you smell like me. The flower smell will cover the dwarf smell, and with three of us smelling like flowers, Smaug will become confused, allowing us time.*

Kili paused and gave that some thought. “Huh. Makes sense,” he said, finally, then began to quickly strip down, Bifur following a moment later.

Taking her cue, Mouse turned away and reached for the bits of wax, handing out two pieces to each of the Company.

*Once we head down, you need to put these in your ears for protection. Keep a good look out in case the dragon escapes.*

“What then?” Balin asked, examining the softened candle pieces.

Mouse shrugged. *Hide. We’ll likely be dead in that case, but you must still wait the seven days before you come searching.*

“But what if you’re hurt? Trapped? You could be dead by then!” Bofur jumped in, jabbing the stem of his pipe in her direction.

*We will be alive or we will be dead. Dragons don’t kill you only a little bit.*

Twin splashes came from behind and she looked over her shoulder in time to see two wet dwarrow resurface from their barrels. She rose and moved to the third one, carrying her pack.

*Don’t look* she flicked her hand at the party before dropping her pack and rummaging through it.

At the very bottom was an oilskin package, tightly wrapped around what she had found in Lake Town. Setting it aside she took her own soap and rough toweling before she bent and began unwrapping her foot straps.

With each knot and twist of leather she began breathing, inholdout, inholdout, each repetition longer and smoother as she sank her consciousness into her core. Straps went to the side. Hat off and on top of the pack. There was a gasp behind her; someone was looking but already there was too much distance to care and she could hear the bells.

Cloak off and folded, set gently aside. In. Hold. Out.

Coat off and folded, set gently aside. In. Hold. Out.

Ah, there were the soft chimes, the gentle strings. In. Hold. Out.

The harp was new, a counter melody to the ancient chant asking for guidance and courage.

In. Hold. Out.

Unwrap her braid and tease it loose, heavy chestnut fall. In. Hold. Out.

In. Left glove, then right. Hold. Fold and tuck into a pocket. Out.

Panpipes whistling in the song, making it merry and enticing, luring out a dance. It reminded her of someone, and a flash of a long face under a fur and leather cap. In. Hold. Out.

Outer gown, and a sound like the ocean, distant but loud in the shelter of the Grey Havens. Folded, set gently aside. In. Hold. Out. Second gown, folded and set gently aside. The wind caressing around her arms, playful pressure and the darkness was growing, warm and peaceful. In. Hold. Out.

In. Shift and smalls off. Hold. Folded and set aside gently. Out.

In.

She drifted, softly and carefully, through the darkness that was all she saw. Through the music that was all she heard. The vibrations rattling her teeth and bones and thoughts were all she felt. The green, growing scent that was all she smelled.

Hold.

A different texture under her hand, slightly off key, then warm silk sliding along her skin until it covered her completely. Warm and soft, protective like the Lady’s arms. She yearned to stay forever, but the chimes were slowing, the steady beat under it was softening, and the end of the passage to Balance was approaching.

Out.

Mouse surfaced, blowing water from nose and mouth as she did, shaking her head and blinking to clear the sting from her eyes. Distantly she heard noise, voices rising and falling, the gentle splash of more water next to her, but the quiet and darkness and peace hold her at the balance and she begins to consider.

The water is warm around her and she scrubs and scrubs with the soap she made from herbs and oils she’d collected on the journey. Her hair receives the same treatment, like always it coils around and around like the Lady’s vines. Eventually she has scrubbed and soaped and dunked to her satisfaction and she is clean.

The water is cool by the time she is done and she bounces up, bracing herself on the edge of the barrel while she pulls up her feet and drops to the side, water and oils sluicing off her body, hair dripping and curling around her, glued to her skin.

In. Hold. Out.

There is a bright flash in the corner of her eye and she turns to see a dark haired dwarf staring at her. There should be something wrong, but the Grace of the Lady is on her and she cannot find enough interest to care. Another figure cuts off her sight of the first, and there are angry, growling words that resonate off the earth and stone. It sets a song singing, and she hums slightly but she can’t quite reach deep enough to touch the rock under her so she stops.

Instead she takes up her towel and dries herself, running it over and over her nuisance hair until it begins to fly away. It is a moment’s work to unwrap the package next to her and then she is wrapping herself in length after length of the finest, purest, whitest silk. There are patterns in threads of gold and silver and green so fine the picture they make can only be looked at indirectly, discerned by the shimmer they make.

In. Hold. Out.

Fire crackles nearby, reflection of the sky. Mayhap the reflection of her fate, she considers, but that thought falls away, fed, ironically, to another flame as her mind and soul move through the Lady’s temple. In her mind she stops and lights a green candle to soothe away any worries. She does it by habit since she is so deep in the Grace she barely recognizes the inside world let alone the outside.

She picks up a comb and begins to work it through her hair. Something changes and she stops. A heavy, thick-fingered hand, scrubbed clean and smelling of lavender is held out for her comb. She looks up, and shadowed blue eyes meet her own. Now that she is not so concerned with the world she knows what is wrong with the dwarf she’d grown to like very much.

Gold-sickness. The Curse of the Durins has grabbed hold of him, egged on by the greed of the dragon. Knowing what to look for she casts her lethargic gaze over the rest and sees how it touches them all, related as they are. Some have it stronger while some would pass it off as a momentary spring fever. Oddly, the two princes of the line fall into that category. Maybe age has something to do with it. She will think on it. Perhaps there is a song she can sing.

In. Hold. Out.

She turns her back on the would-be king and lets him comb her hair. It is something odd; only done between close kin among dwarrow and among lovers in The Shire. She and Thorin are neither, yet she enjoys the feel of his careful hands working through the long strands. She can smell it clearly when he adds oil to her hair, picking out the knots that have come no matter how careful she has been with keeping it tightly braided.

There is a moment’s concern that she might smell of him, enough for the dragon to tell, but even that could work in her favor. The world is a long way from her, and so is any concern about a small creature that might be running around on the mountain’s flanks.

Thorin starts separating her hair into strands. She can feel the tug as he parts it, and instead she pulls it from him, shaking her head. There will be no braids in her hair. This is how the Great Lady created her, and so this is the way she will face the great wyrm.

In. Hold. Out.

The sun has begun to set and the dwarrow have begun to settle as much as they can, caught between the edge of gold-sickness and anxiety over their fates. Kili and Bifur are in their freshly washed clothing and are arming themselves. She rises and turns to them, the wind catching her hair and wrap, snapping at the ends. They are frowning at her, and she knows it is because she carries no weapons, wears no armor, has no braids. If she had to guess, she would wager they think she is going to sacrifice herself so that they have a chance against the beast.

Smaug is no beast. He wears a different shape but he speaks and reasons and riddles to equal any of the Races that walk Arda. This is something the dwarrow never understood; Smaug walks on all fours, eats raw animals, and most damning, crafts nothing. The do not see the intelligence, the heart and mind. This is a point that has always baffled her, but will also be the point she uses to craft his downfall. Because she knows that Smaug is a being, not a beast, and so has the same kinds of weaknesses as the throneless king that combed her hair for her.

In. Hold. Out.

Time to go.

With the sun falling behind them it didn’t take long for the three to move past the last light of day and then leave the firelight of the Company behind. Both Kili and Bifur carried torches since neither was familiar with the hallway. Occasionally they would stop at a turn, one or the other, to mark the way back. It seemed like only minutes before they reached the final turn, and by then the two dwarrow were beginning to sweat.

*Wait here,* Mouse signed to them. *When I call you, come then. You, Kili, aim for vulnerable points; his mouth, eyes, nostrils, anything that looks like a dark, soft patch, especially on his belly. Bifur, go for his wings, the sails between spines and the joints; he must not be allowed to take wing.*

Bifur grunted before he answered, hand moving in tandem to Kili’s voiced question. “How will we know when it’s time? How will you call us? Aren’t we wearing wax, too?”

Absently, Mouse nodded. *Yes, but the wax only blunts the effects of what I will do. Your uncle and friends are safe because they are far away. You will still hear me.”

Bifur found himself shivering, not sure he wanted to hear something. He remembered the wargs savaging each other, blood running from nose and ears as they attacked each other and themselves in a crazed frenzy. He remembered the Elf King in the Wood, huddled and crying on his throne, a small sapling growing up through the stone in the center of the throne room. If anyone asked him, right this moment, he couldn’t say for sure if he feared the dragon or maiden more.

Kili started to protest again, his instinctive move forward blocked by Mouse, who waved at the floor of the tunnel. Distracted, it was only then that the two dwarrow noticed the scattering of gold coins and small jewels across the floor. The youngest Durin started to reach for a piece, anxious to examine the fruit of the Grand Treasury of Erebor he’d heard so much about. Once again, he was blocked by the tiny—hobbitess?

*The very instant the smallest fraction of this is moved, Smaug will know and awaken. You must wait. Wait here until you are called.* Green eyes stared into dark blue. *If you cannot do this, Kili, son of Dis, of the line Durin, speak now that I may call another in your place.*

Blushing, Kili stepped back while he nodded. “I can wait.”

Mouse took the torch the young dwarf was carrying and turned to Bifur. She read anxiousness there, along with stubbornness and a wide streak of affection. She reached out and placed one hand on Bifur’s arm, trying to summon a thread of the fondness she knew had developed in their travel but had to settle for a thin smile and a nod. Then she turned around, and walked through the entry to the throne room on a carpet of gold.

Gold, Mouse found, had its own song, a rich, stable drumming. Gold the line that all other metals would twine themselves around, like the steady heart stone of a garden, buried deep. Other strands came to her as she walked, stepping lightly and carefully. She forgot herself for a moment, entranced by the music of something silvery with glimmering stones, the whole effect sounding like wind chimes moving to the Lady’s breath.

Crashing discord saved her from further thrall and she blinked before looking around to see what had caused such a clash, only to face a wave of gold and silver rushing towards her. It was only a quick dash and a mostly intact pillar that saved her from being swamped. She took that moment to breathe. In. Hold. Out. The Balance held between inside and outside; inside yielded calm and planning at the cost of outside’s passion and innovation, but it was a point she had balanced on nearly since she could walk unaided.

“Well, thief….”

The voice is deep and reverberates around the chamber before resting over her heart and pushing. Had she less practice it would have pushed her from the Balance. Instead she focuses and glances around. The ridge she had thought was a hill of gold was the mere covering of the Wyrm’s tail. Listening, she can hear the bellows of his lungs. The scent of animal musk lays over everything. Below it all is a tainted rot that makes her soul crawl.

“…step into the light, little thief. I know you’re there. I can smell the scent of flowers. I can hear the beat of your heart. I can feel the rush of your breath. Step out, little thief.”

In. Hold. Out.

One last breath and she tightens her grip on the torch, draws herself up and steps out from behind the shelter of the pillar.

And there he is; the second to last obstacle on this quest. Technically, she is supposed to steal from the dragon, not defeat him, but any fool with the knowledge she has earned will tell you the same; you cannot steal from a dragon. They will always know.

Smaug is reclining on his golden bed, and from what she can see he takes up a third of the great hall, and even then not all of him is visible at the moment. She is reminded of a great lord lounging in his bed, the sheets still wrapped around him from his slumber. One huge, golden catseye is studying her, not twenty feet away. She can feel the heat of him blowing gently across her, making her dress and hair wave.

Making her gestures clear and precise, Mouse slowly spelled out, *Do you know Igleshmek?*

In response, the dragon merely blinked. “Is this some form of magic, little thief? Is it to protect you from my flames? Beguile me into not eating you? Cause me to forget you are here?”

Smaug reared back. “If so it has FAILED!” The roar he turned his words into shook the hall and more golden treasure slid across the floor.

And in that moment, Mouse decided to do something she hadn’t done since she was taken from Bag End by the Handmaidens. She spoke.

“No, Oh Smaug,” she whispered, pausing as even those tiny words echoed fiercely across the cavern. She waited a moment more to make sure nothing would break.

Golden eyes narrowed. “What a very odd sound.” He lunged, head and neck snapping forward, barely stopping in front of her. “Why then, little thief, are you here?”

“I am here to sing before you.” Her words were more breathed than spoken, hard sounds softened to a lisping whisper until she was more sibilant than the dragon.

Mouse held still as her namesake when the dragon began winding around her, pressing his body and heat closer and closer until she began to sweat from it. Despite the trickle down her back she held still, quiet, calm. Balanced.

In. Hold. Out.

Finally the dragon stilled, eye as big as her body an arm’s length away. “Your voice, little thief, has a not unpleasing resonance to it, and it has been many years since I have heard another voice besides my own and my gold. I’ll make you a bargain, little singer thief; if you displease me I’ll eat you. If you please me—why, then I’ll keep you a while before I eat you. Either way, the dwarfs that have traveled with you I’ll eat when I please.”

She waved her hand in dismissal. “Eat them as you wish, Great Smaug; I had thought to gift them to you if you would like them. They were simply hired to escort me here and have no importance to me beyond that.”

The dragon’s gaze sharpened further, the great cat’s-eye pupil expanding then shrinking to a sliver.

“Do your companions know that you intended to gift them to me? It does not seem to be a thing that you two-legged beasts would do.” The dragon’s rumble held equal parts acid and humor, so Mouse chose to count it as a win for her side.

“Great Smaug, by your own words and my own knowledge I will either be eaten immediately after I sing, or within a handful of days. The fate of a handful of Aule’s spawn is of little concern to me.”

 


End file.
